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He lifts the whiskey in a small salute before taking a long sip. "It was needed. After all, Isadora is my only child; hence, all I have has to go to her."

We talk about structure, legacy, and the possibility of merging his remaining holdings with mine. It's a conversation that would have been impossible months ago, but now trust has begun to root. The possibility of merging his remaining holdings with mine is no longer an idea, but an intention forming in real time.

Antonio leans back. "I always thought legacy was about blood. About keeping the family name alive. But maybe it's about who you trust to carry it."

I nod, absorbing the weight of that truth.

Then the door bursts open with a force that startles even me.

Isadora.

She rushes in, breathless, eyes wide and brimming. The moment she sees her father, she stops, caught between disbelief and relief.

"Papa?"

Antonio rises instantly. No hesitation. No pride. Just the instinct of a father seeing his daughter.

She crosses the room in three strides and throws herself into his arms. His hands curl around her like they used to when she was a little girl, holding her tightly, anchoring her. She kisses both his cheeks, and I catch the glint of tears on her lashes.

"I didn’t know you were here," she whispers, emotion clogging her throat.

"Vittorio told me you were in the building," she adds, looking between the two of us, piecing it together.

Antonio cups her face in both hands, gently. "I was here to see the man you chose."

Her gaze swings to me, startled. Then back to her father, eyes narrowing slightly. "Wait... you what?"

He smiles at her, warmth replacing the stern edge in his face. "And you chose well. You were right, Isadora. You picked the right brother."

A soft, tearful laugh escapes her lips as she hugs him again, tighter this time, burying her face in his neck.

He strokes her hair. "He came to see me. Asked for your hand the way a man should."

She pulls back quickly, blinking at him. "He did?"

Her eyes shoot to me, stunned. "You did that?"

I nod once, quiet.

She looks from me to her father again, emotions cycling too fast to name. Her voice comes out softer, reverent. "You gave him your blessing?"

He nods. "My full blessing. And my loyalty."

She turns to me, her eyes full, shining, and I rise, walking toward her.

In that moment, there is no tension, no war, no blood-soaked legacy clinging to our shadows.

There is only peace.

There is only her.

And the two men who would burn the world before letting it touch her again.

It’s time.

29

Isadora