Page 114 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

Somewhere years ago, before she came back to this house, before I laid claim to what had always been broken.

"I used to think I’d never have to choose," she says, voice low. "That loyalty could exist without fracture."

I don’t speak.

Because I know what she means.

And it’s not about me. Not tonight.

"You look at someone your whole life," she continues, barely above a whisper, "and you think—he’d never hurt me. Not the real kind. Not the kind that makes you bleed slow and silent."

The breeze catches a strand of her hair and lifts it across her cheek.

I reach out before I think about it, pushing it behind her ear.

She doesn’t react.

But she doesn’t pull away either.

I shouldn’t touch her when I’m still angry.

Not at her, never at her.

At myself.

For letting the cracks form.

For failing to seal them before they let the rot in.

"You haven’t told me everything," I murmur.

"No." Her mouth slackens, and her lips tremble. "I suppose I haven’t."

"And I haven’t earned it."

Her head turns.

Just slightly.

I can feel her watching me now.

"No," she says again, softer this time. "But I still want to."

20

GIANNA

We don’t speak as we walk back to the south wing.

The corridor feels long, and the hush of the house presses in around us like it knows what we’re carrying.

Our footsteps are quiet on the tile, but the silence between us isn’t. I can feel it twisting, reshaping itself with every breath I take and don’t release.

When we reach the bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the floor, hands folded in my lap like I’m waiting for a verdict.

Dante moves around the room without a word.

Loosens the buttons at his collar.