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Francesca's hand finds my shoulder, her touch grounding me. "You're thinking about Elena."

"My mother died because she tried to protect us from this life," I acknowledge. "And now here I am, plotting to kill my own brother while his wife carries his child."

But the truth burns in my chest: I cannot hesitate. Not now. Not when everything I've built, everything I've sacrificed for, hangs in the balance.

"The moment that baby draws breath, Luca's position becomes unassailable," I continue. "The other families would never support a coup that threatens an infant heir. It has to be now, while Bianca's pregnancy gives him a weakness to exploit."

I reach up, covering Francesca's hand with mine. "Does that make me more of a monster than my father ever was?"

"It makes you a king," she answers simply. "One who understands that mercy can be deadlier than violence."

She's right. I've spent too many years being the second son, the expendable one. I won't let sentiment stay my hand now. Not when the crown is finally within my grasp.

I turn back to the monitors, watching my brother's tired face as he exits another doctor's appointment.

"We strike before the child is born," I declare. "Everything we've planned, every piece we've positioned… it all happens now."

She meets my eyes, a silent understanding passing between us. The moment we've planned, schemed, and bled for has finally arrived.

"When do we move?" she asks, her voice steady with conviction that matches my own.

"Soon. Very soon." I rise, moving to the window overlooking London. "But first, I have a special little meeting with Nico to attend to."

***

The wine cellar beneath my penthouse is a sanctuary of dark ambience. Centuries-old bottles line temperature-controlled racks, their dusty labels chronicling the rise and fall of European empires.

The lighting remains deliberately dim, throwing shadows across ancient brick and slate. Perfect for secrets. Perfect for treachery.

Perfect for brothers to speak truths only blood can hear.

Nico arrives precisely at the appointed time, moving through the entrance with the cautious grace of prey entering a predator's den.

He looks like shit.

Dark circles beneath his eyes, the pinched expression of a man who hasn't slept properly in weeks. His designer suit, typically immaculate, appears slept in. His hair, usually perfectly styled, falls carelessly across his forehead.

Running has aged him. Fear has hollowed him.

He sees me waiting in the center of the room, a bottle of 1982 Bordeaux open on the tasting table between us. Two crystal glasses, already poured.

"Dante," he acknowledges, keeping his distance. "I wasn't sure you'd see me."

"I wasn't sure I wouldn't kill you before we spoke," I reply casually, gesturing to the chair opposite mine. "Still… I haven't completely decided against it."

Tension radiates from him as he approaches, taking the offered seat with obvious reluctance. His eyes dart around the cellar, assessing exits, threats, weapons. The instincts of a hunted man. The instincts of a Ravelli.

I push a glass toward him. "Drink. If I wanted you dead, poison would be too subtle for what you deserve."

He picks up the glass but doesn't bring it to his lips. "You're looking well. Recovered from your Russian adventure?"

"Cut the bull shit, Nico. We're past that." I lean forward, letting the predator show in my eyes. "Were you playing both sides? Did you sabotage everything I've built?"

He sighs, rolling the wine glass between his palms. "It's more complicated than that."

"Un-complicate it."

"I wasn't playing sides, Dante. I was creating my own." The confession emerges with unexpected pride from the little brother who always remained withdrawn, quiet. "Can you imagine how it feels? Growing up watching two brothers locked in eternal war, while I stand in their shadows, nothing but a footnote in the Ravelli legacy?"