Page 57 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

"You think this is a punishment," Luca says, fixing him with a stare. "But this is mercy. If you were not my brother, if you were not who you are, I would have cut you out for what you have done. But you were never told the truth, and that blame lies elsewhere."

He looks at me then.

And I look back, unflinching.

"There were reasons," I say, though I don't explain.

I gave him a hypothetical, and he told me to choose the easy way out—for him.

"And none of you get to question them now."

"This is done," Luca says. "The decision is made. You will move into the estate today, Gianna. You’ll be in the south wing. The suite is being aired out now. It should be enough for you and the girls."

"And after that?" I ask, though the question feels hollow.

Luca leans back slightly, the air of finality still heavy on his shoulders.

"You will have your own house. Separate, but adjoining. It will be my gift to you. A wedding present. So long as neither of you behaves like a spoiled child between now and then."

Marco smiles faintly into his glass.

It is the only trace of amusement in the room.

Dante’s hands drop to his sides, rigid and unmoving.

"This isn’t a request," Luca finishes. "This is not up for debate."

Silence lingers like smoke.

Then Rafa turns toward the door.

"I’ll see to the arrangements," he says, and my resentment rises at the undercurrent of glee in his voice.

He nods once at Luca, does not look at Dante or me, and leaves the room.

Marco follows soon after, though not before meeting my eyes.

There is something unreadable in his gaze, something between pity and approval.

I am not sure which would cut deeper.

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving Dante and me alone in the study.

He turns toward me slowly, the coldness in his expression more cutting than anything I’ve seen from him before.

He does not explode.

He does not shout.

He walks past me instead, pours himself a drink from the cabinet in the corner, and downs it in a single swallow.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Five years," he says. "You kept them from me for five fucking years."

"They were safe," I answer. "You would’ve ruined that. And I thought you didn’t want to be a father."

He turns sharply.