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My breath catches in my throat. My hands tremble. My stomach twists violently.

Nicolas exhales, slipping the silencer off the barrel. With slow precision, he sets the gun on the table.Click.

I stumble back, my foot catching a loose floorboard. The wood creaks beneath me.

Nicolas’ head snaps up. His eyes lock onto mine.

For a long, stretched moment, neither of us moves. His expression is unreadable, perfectly controlled, but his gaze pierces through me. My breath catches. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it’s painful.

Without looking away, he speaks. “Take care of it.”

Matteo nods, as if he already knew the command was meant for him.

Nicolas steps toward me.

I instinctively step back, but his hand closes around my wrist before I can move any further. His grip is firm—unwavering—but not forceful.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds me there, waiting. Watching.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to breathe.

Nicolas pulls me forward, guiding me away from the room—away from the blood, the body, the horror.

We walk in silence. Up the stairs. Into our room. Only then does he release me, and the moment he does, I stumble back, putting space between us.

The silence is unbearable.

He stands near the dresser, his reflection is sharp in the mirror. His shirt hangs open, revealing the fresh wound on his shoulder, the raw edges blending into the countless scars etched across his skin.

I sink onto the bed, curling my arms around my legs, my chest tight, my thoughts tangled. Nicolas turns slightly, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. His voice is calm, steady.

“We need to talk.”

I swallow hard.

He turns to face me fully, his expression impossibly calm. “This is my world, Aria. I don’t want to pretend in front of my wife.” The weight of his words settles deep in my chest. “I even bought another house,” he continues. “Somewhere to keep that side of my life away from you. I thought it would be better that way.”

I shake my head, pressing my fingers against my temples. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I changed my mind.”

He steps closer. “I am not your father. I am not your brother. I don’t think you’re weak. I don’t believe you need to be shielded from my world.”

His world.

The blood. The screams. The way he ended that man’s life without hesitation, without remorse.

He crouches in front of me, his fingers grazing my knee. A shiver runs through me—part of me still craves his touch, but another part remembers what those hands have done.

“This is who I am,” he says softly. “And this is the man who loves you.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut, but the images remain. The man begging for mercy. The gunshot. The silence that followed.

I shake my head, my breath unsteady. “It’s different,” I whisper.

His gaze sharpens. “How?”

I open my eyes, meeting his. “Because it’s you.”