Page 61

21

Isadora

Blood roars in my ears as I stand frozen between father and sons. The warehouse air hangs thick with tension, gunpowder, and the metallic scent of blood—mine from my split lip, Luca’s from the graze on his temple, Stefano’s streaming down his neck, and a few gunned down guards.

Giancarlo steps forward, his expensive shoes clicking against concrete with the authority of a man who’s spent decades believing he was God. His amber eyes—so like Stefano’s—survey the scene with calculated coldness. The resemblance between both of them hits me like a physical blow. Father and firstborn son are mirror images. Only separated by time and cruelty.

“What a family reunion,” Giancarlo says, his voice carrying the casual arrogance of someone who’s never faced consequences. “My eldest, back from the dead. My heir, holding a gun to his own fiancée’s throat.”

Luca’s grip on me tightens, his pistol pressing hard enough against my neck that I’ll wear its imprint for days—if I survive that long.

“Father,” Luca’s voice betrays his fear beneath the practiced calm. “I can explain—”

“Explain what?” Giancarlo cuts him off. “That you’ve known your brother was alive for years and kept it from me? That you’ve been plotting behind my back? Or that you’ve managed to lose control of the De Angelis bride before she even reaches the altar?”

I watch Stefano’s face, cataloging the minute shifts in his expression—the tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. He’s calculating, measuring distances, assessing threats. Even with blood soaking his collar, his focus remains razor-sharp. For twenty years, he’s prepared for this moment.

“No explanations needed,” Stefano says, his voice deadly quiet. “Not when the truth is standing right here.” His eyes meet mine briefly, a flicker of something desperate and protective passing between us. Hold on, his gaze promises. This ends tonight.

Giancarlo laughs, the sound echoing off metal rafters like breaking glass. “The truth? You want the truth, Stefano?” He steps closer, seemingly unconcerned with the tension crackling through the air. “The truth is neither of you deserves the Calviño name.”

With a gesture that carries the weight of command, more men step from the shadows—Giancarlo’s personal guard, eight of them, weapons drawn and aimed at both sons. My heart sinks. We’re outnumbered.

“You.” Giancarlo points at Luca. “My chosen heir. Weak. Undisciplined. Plotting against your own father.” His gaze shifts to Stefano. “And you. The ghost. Twenty years planning revenge, only to be undone by a pair of pretty green eyes.”

Heat blooms in my chest at his dismissive assessment, but beneath it lies a kernel of truth that catches in my throat. Did I compromise Stefano’s plan? Did my diary—my careless, lovesick ramblings—lead us all to this moment?

Giancarlo circles us like a shark scenting blood. “What a disappointment you both are. One son I thought dead turns up alive, plotting my destruction. The other proves to be more treacherous than an enemy.”

I feel Luca stiffens behind me at being compared to an enemy. He knows what happens to enemies. The gun at my throat wavers for just a second—long enough for me to catch Stefano’s eye and telegraph my intent.

“Tell me,” Giancarlo continues, oblivious to the silent communication between us, “did you really believe either of you could take what’s mine? That I wouldn’t see it coming?”

“Is that why you killed my mother?” Stefano asks, his voice dangerously soft. “Because you feared she was going to take what was yours? Or you had her killed to clear the path for your mistress?”

Giancarlo’s expression darkens. “She was weak. She would’ve destroyed everything I built.” His gaze shifts to me, calculating. “Much like the De Angelis girl threatens to do now.”

The way he looks at me—like I’m nothing but a liability, a pawn that’s outlived its usefulness—sends ice through my veins. In that moment, I know with absolute certainty that he plans for none of us to leave this warehouse alive.

“Enough talk,” Giancarlo says, gesturing to his guards. “Disarm them both.”

As a guard approaches Stefano, I see his muscles tense, ready to strike. It’s now or never.

I slam my head backward into Luca’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage as his nose breaks. His grip loosens in shock, and I twist away, dropping to the floor as gunfire erupts around us.

Chaos explodes through the warehouse. I scramble for cover behind a rusty machine, heart thundering against my ribs. Through a haze of gunsmoke, I see Stefano dive behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with lethal precision. Luca, blood streaming from his broken nose, exchanges shots with his father’s men from behind an overturned metal table.

For a surreal moment, the brothers are united against a common enemy—the father who betrayed them both.

“Isadora!” Stefano’s voice cuts through the cacophony of gunfire. “Stay down!”

I press myself against cold concrete, searching desperately for a weapon, a way out, anything to help turn the tide. My fingers close around a jagged piece of metal—a broken pipe with a wicked edge. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

A shadow falls across me, and I look up into Giancarlo’s cold eyes. Somehow, during the chaos, he’s circled behind the firefight to reach me.

“You,” he says, gun aimed at my heart. “You’re the reason for all this.”

Before I can react, he grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet and pressing the barrel of his gun to my temple.