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MATTEO

I’ve always known I’m a monster. But it wasn’t until the end of the funeral that I felt it in my bones. I looked into her eyes and saw the man I killed. Mistake or not, his blood is on my hands—and nothing will bring him back.

I replay that day over and over again in my head. I think of ways it all could have ended differently. The information had been wrong, and Antonio had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. How was I supposed to know he was Antonio Faravelli?

I groan and rub my eyes, trying to shake the weight of sleep. After the funeral, I made my way back to my estate in Milan with a heavy heart. The deal has been made, and now it’s all but a matter of time.

The air in the study is stifling. Smoke from my cigar curls upward, a thin veil between me and the quiet judgment in the mirror across the room. I replay the conversation I had with Marcello. I gave him the deal of a lifetime. I know the offer is far too tempting to pass up. My name carries a lot of weight in this world.

Marcello Faravelli—the man I used to call a friend—trusted me. And now, his son is dead because of me.

I run a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, trying to summon the right words for a conversation I’ve been dreading since I woke this morning. The decision to do all this had been rash, but it soothes a part of my guilty conscience.

A knock comes at my door, and I pause. I lean back into my chair and roll my shoulders. It’s Daniele.

“Entra.” Enter.

The door creaks open behind me. Daniele’s heavy footsteps follow, confident as ever. He doesn’t know yet. I watch the smile slip from his lips the moment he sees the grave expression on my face. He walks over to the other end of my large desk and sits.

“Papá.” He speaks sharply, as he always does when he enters my space uninvited. “You wanted to see me?”

He wasn’t at the funeral, but I don’t blame him. If I were in his place, after everything that happened, I wouldn’t want to be in the presence of the family we destroyed, either. Hearing Marta’s voice slice through the air was nothing short of gut-wrenching. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain they must be feeling.

“I did.” I set my cigar down in the ashtray. This is a conversation I never thought I’d have with my son. Beatrice and I had always been adamant that he wouldn’t fall into the trap of an arranged marriage. We wanted him to choose.

“What’s this about?” He crosses his arms over his chest. His warm caramel eyes stare at me anxiously. He’s trying to assert dominance, but I don’t have the energy to challenge him. Not today.

“We need to discuss your future.”

His brow furrows. “What about my future?”

“You will be marrying Maria Faravelli within the next two weeks.” The words hang heavy in the room.

He straightens, his posture stiffening. “Excuse me?”

“It means you’ll marry Maria Faravelli within two weeks. After what happened with Antonio, I think this is a necessary arrangement.”

In other words, a way to ease my guilt—marry her into our family so they can reap the benefits of the Davacalli name.

Silence. It stretches between us, thick and suffocating, until Daniele laughs. It’s humorless, bitter, and cuts through the air like a blade. I know my son—and from the look in his eyes alone, I know I have a fight on my hands.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Jesus Christ, Papá.” He steps back, dragging a hand through his hair. “I told you I don’t want to be tied down, and you agreed that I was free to make whatever choice I wanted—as long as it didn’t infringe on my duties as heir to all of this.”

He speaks the truth. But that was before everything changed. My mind flashes to the gun, the blood. So much fucking blood.

I slam my hand on the desk, silencing him. “You don’t have a choice in this, Daniele.”

He stares at me, anger simmering in his eyes. “Why? What could possibly make you think you have the right to throw me into a marriage I didn’t agree to?”

I hold his gaze, letting the silence carry the weight of my guilt. When I speak, my voice is low, steady. “Because I owe Marcello Faravelli a debt. You know this better than anyone, my son. You were there when the gun went off and Antonio dropped to the ground. You saw it. I saw it. And now we owe a debt. It’s our duty to help replace what was lost.”

Daniele’s jaw clenches. “So you want me to suffer for the sins you caused? Papá, please. Surely there’s another way to appease your guilt?”

“Antonio’s death is on my hands, and this”—I gesture to the room, to him, to everything we’ve built—“this marriage is the only way to make it right.”