Page 69

“Giancarlo Calviño murdered his first wife to marry his mistress—your mother, Luca. He eliminated a son who stood between him and complete control of the Mancini territory.” I pause, letting the truth sink in. “But he failed. I survived. And I’ve spent twenty decades becoming the instrument of his destruction.”

Giancarlo’s face has gone ashen in the red emergency lighting. He grips the arms of his wheelchair, knuckles white.

“You have no proof,” he rasps, trying to regain control.

“I have every proof.” I nod to Vittorio again, who advances the presentation. “Bank transfers to the hitmen who killed my mother. Your own signed orders, preserved by your formerconsiglierebefore his convenient ‘heart attack. DNA tests confirming my identity.”

I feel Isadora tense beside me, her eyes fixed on something across the room. I follow her gaze to see Luca slowly reaching inside his jacket.

“And that’s not all,” she says, her voice cutting through the tension. “Tell them about your own plans, Luca. Tell them how you’ve been siphoning funds from all three families for years, preparing your own coup.”

Luca freezes, his hand still inside his jacket. His eyes narrow as they fix on Isadora.

“You lying bitch,” he hisses. “You’d say anything to save your new lover.”

“Would I?” She steps forward, her confidence making my chest tighten with pride and desire even in this deadly moment. “Then explain these.” She produces copies of documents from inside her tactical vest—account statements, offshore holdings, communications with the Colombians that bypass all three families’ established channels.

“And oh,CapoVieri has confirmed every shady thing you have used him to carry out, to sabotage your own father.”

The look on Luca’s face is worth every scar I’ve earned in twenty years of planning. Pure, undiluted shock, followed by calculating rage.

“You’ve doomed us all,” he spits, pulling his weapon. But before he can aim, Vittorio disarms him.

I toss another manila folder onto the center of the table. It lands with a slap that echoes like a gunshot.

"What is this?" Giancarlo asks, his voice deceptively calm.

"Proof," I say, my tone colder than the steel tucked against my back. "Proof that Luca Calviño is not your biological son."

A hushed silence falls over the room. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Giancarlo chuckles—a low, dismissive sound.

"You expect me to believe this? Some forged documents?"

I lean forward, my hands braced on the table. "You think it’s forged? Why not confirm from your dear wife?"

His eyes flick to Luca, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Giancarlo's fingers twitch toward the folder, but he doesn't open it. Instead, he turns his gaze—sharp and venomous—to Suzette.

"Explain," he demands.

Suzette’s expression doesn't change. She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her designer dress and looks Giancarlo dead in the eye.

"What did you expect, Giancarlo?" she says, her voice like silk over a dagger. "Loyalty? After what you did to Stefano's mother even if you were fucking her?"

The room tightens around us, a collective inhalation waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Giancarlo pushes back from the table, rising to his full height despite his injuries, his face mottled with rage. "It was part of the plan!" he roars. "You knew the plan! We were building an empire!"

Suzette tilts her head, a smile ghosting her lips. "No, Giancarlo. You were building your empire. I was ensuring my son would rule it."

The room shudders under the weight of her words.

Giancarlo’s face twists, betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. His shoulders sag, the weight of years crashing down all at once. A low, bitter laugh rumbles from his chest, broken and hollow. He shakes his head slowly, as if he can't believe the farce of his own life.

A single tear—angry, and helpless—slips down his weathered cheek.

He looks at Suzette, eyes bloodshot and wide with something almost childlike in its devastation.

"I gave up a good and dutiful woman just to be with you," he says in a small hoarse voice. "And you do this to me?"