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He thumps his cane against the floor. “I never believed the rumors that Emilio’s daughters survived. Too dangerous to hope.” His rheumy eyes narrow, studying us. “But looking at you now—you have Sofia’s eyes. Both of you.”

“They do,” agrees the man with the glasses, leaning forward. “The exact same shade. I remember clear as yesterday, the way Sofia’s eyes flashed when she was angry.” He offers a tight smile. “Franco Rossi. Your father saved my life in ’92. A debt I never had the chance to repay—until now, perhaps.”

The twins nod in unison, an unsettling synchronicity. “We thought the DeLuca line was extinct,” says one, his voice like gravel. “We made our peace with the Bianchis because we had to survive.”

“But our true loyalty never wavered,” finishes the other.

Ettore retakes his seat at the head of the table, his eyes never leaving my face. “Your parents meant everything to me,” he says, the raw emotion still evident in his voice. “Your father taught me to fish. Your mother baked me birthday cakes with my name spelled out in candy.”

He swallows hard. “When they were taken from us, something broke in this city—a balance that has never been restored.”

“The Bianchis rule with fear,” says the bearded man missing an ear. “Your father ruled with respect. There’s a difference.”

“And yet you all survived under Bianchi rule,” I observe, my voice cool. “For twenty-five years.”

A tense silence falls. These men—these powerful, dangerous men—shift in their seats like chastised schoolboys.

“We had no choice,” says the man with the salt-and-pepper beard. “Salvatore Bianchi wiped out every family that openly opposed him after your father’s death. We survived by bending the knee.”

“But we never forgot,” Ettore adds fiercely. “We never forgot who we were—and who we still are. DeLucas’ men and trusted allies, through and through.”

I let my gaze travel from face to face, assessing the truth of their words. “Then why gather now? Why risk Salvatore’s wrath after all this time?”

“Because you’re alive,” Lorenzo Venucci says, his voice rising like thunder through the smoke-thick room. He slams his cane against the floor again, the sound sharp and final.

“Because the bloodline we thought extinguished now stands before us—flesh and fire, not myth. For twenty-five years, we survived under broken alliances, waiting for ghosts to walk through that door. And now you have. The daughters of Emilio have returned. The true heirs.” He leans forward, eyes glinting. “This doesn’t just change everything. It restarts everything.”

I lean forward, placing my hands flat on the table. “How do I know I can trust any of you? You might be Bianchi spies. You might run straight to Salvatore the moment we leave.”

“Aria,” Chiara murmurs beside me, a gentle warning to tread carefully.

The elderly Lorenzo barks out a laugh. “She has Emilio’s suspicion, too. Good. You’ll need it.”

Ettore rises again, moving to a painting on the wall—a seascape that seems innocuous enough. He swings it aside, revealing a safe. After entering a combination, he removes a yellowed envelope.

“Your father gave me this the week before he died,” Ettore says, placing the envelope before me with reverent care, as though it still burns with his touch. “He had… suspicions. Doubts about Salvatore that he couldn’t voice out loud. He feared a knife was coming.”

He hesitates, then meets my gaze, his voice rough with something deeper than grief—guilt, maybe. “He told me, ifanything ever happened to him… I was to protect you. Both of you. With my life, if it came to that.”

A beat of silence passes, heavy as a verdict.

“He didn’t just entrust me with this envelope, Aria. He entrusted me with his blood. With his daughters. And I’ve been waiting twenty-five years for the moment I could finally keep that promise.”

With trembling fingers, I open the envelope. Inside is a single photograph—my father and Salvatore Bianchi, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing at some shared joke. But it’s the back that steals my breath. Scrawled in a handwriting I don’t recognize—but somehow know is my father’s—are five words:

The snake closest to me.

“He knew,” I whisper, shock coursing through me. “He suspected Salvatore would betray him.”

“He did,” confirms Ettore. “But he couldn’t prove it. Salvatore was too careful, too close. And all his life, your father trusted him like a brother.”

The bearded man without an ear slams his fist on the table. “And that snake repaid his trust with bullets and blood. Ordered the hit himself—bragged about it later when he thought no one who cared was listening.”

My fingers dig into the photograph, creasing it. The image of Marco rises in my mind—the same green eyes as his father, the same strong jaw.

The same capacity for betrayal?

“So tell us,” says one of the twins. “Why have you summoned us? What do you want from the seven families?”