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Something that might be a laugh escapes Luca. "She has opinions already."

"Of course she does," I reply, the tension between us easing fractionally. "She's a Ravelli."

Francesca turns toward me, still cradling the infant. "Would you like to hold your niece, Dante?"

The question freezes me where I stand.

Hold her? This child who represents everything I've fought against, everything I've envied, everything I've sworn to destroy?

Luca's body tenses, his protective instinct visibly warring with the tenuous peace we've established.

For a moment, I expect him to refuse, to reclaim his daughter and send us away.

Instead, he gives a single, sharp nod.

"She should know her uncle," he says simply. "All of her family."

Francesca approaches, and I find myself holding out my uninjured arm without conscious decision. The weight of the infant settling against me is both heavier and lighter than I expected.

Elena Ravelli—all seven pounds of the newest addition to our bloodline—looks up at me with unfocused eyes, her tiny face serene despite being held by the man who, hours ago, intended to orphan her before she drew her first breath.

Something shifts inside me.

A tectonic movement of priorities, of possibilities, of perspective.

She has Luca's brow, Bianca's mouth. But there, in the shape of her eyes, in the stubborn tilt of her chin visible even in infancy, I see echoes of my mother. Of the woman whose death set us all on this blood-soaked path sixteen years ago.

Tiny fingers find my own, grasping with surprising strength. The simple, instinctive trust of her grip unravels something I've kept tightly bound within me for so long I'd forgotten it existed.

I look up to find Francesca watching us, tears shimmering in her golden eyes. And beyond her, Luca observes with an expression I can't quite decipher.

"She's perfect," I say, the words emerging rough and unfamiliar. "LittleElena…"

Luca nods, something passing between us that transcends the hatred that has defined our relationship for so long.

"She is." Luca stands, kissing Bianca on the head before straightening. "Dante, we need to speak in private. If you will excuse us, Francesca. Feel free to keep my wife company."

After I return the baby Bianca's arms, I kiss Francesca before Luca and I retreat alone to Vito's study.

Stepping inside for the first time in months, I notice how the room remains unchanged since our father's death.

We stand on opposite sides of the massive mahogany desk, two wolves circling without quite making eye contact. The silence stretches for a moment too long, heavy with sixteen years of hatred, competition, and blood.

Eventually, Luca crosses to the bar cart, retrieving a dusty bottle from the back. Vito's private reserve, saved for occasions that warranted the very best. Or the very worst.

"We almost lost everything today," he says, pouring two generous measures. "You. Me. The baby..."

I accept the offered glass. "Nico played us both."

"While we were too busy trying to kill each other to notice." Luca's laugh holds no humor. "Father would be furious."

"Father would have executed us both for the embarrassment," I correct, taking a sip of the exceptional scotch. "After appropriate torture, of course."

"Of course." Luca raises his glass slightly. "To dear old Dad. May he rot in hell."

I touch my glass to his, an unexpected moment of alignment. "No. This one is to Elena…" I counter. "BothElena's."

Genuine grief flashes across Luca's face.