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“You’re only just telling me this now?” Vittorio asks finally, though there’s no mistaking the accusation buried in those words.

Leone straightens slightly, though he doesn’t waver under his father’s scrutiny. “I had to be sure you weren’t involved,” he says evenly. Then, after a beat: “Or at least that you didn’t know.”

For a moment, Vittorio just stares at him, unblinking. Then he scoffs—a harsh sound that cuts through whatever tentative truce might’ve existed between them. “I’d rather die,” he spits, venom dripping from every syllable, “than stand beside a Romanov.”

He means it. I can tell. What I don’t understand is the anger he spat, saying those words.

“Then help us stop him,” Leone says. “Or you need to get out of the way so we can.”

“You think I’ll bless a war because she’s carrying your child?” Vittorio scoffs, voice low and sharp.

Whatever retort Leone might’ve had dies on his tongue when another voice cuts through from behind them.

“You’ll do it,” Gina says from the doorway.

All heads turn toward her.

Gina steps into the room with measured grace, her robe tied tighter around her waist now and her face scrubbed clean of any trace of makeup or pretense.

It isn’t her appearance that holds everyone captive—it’s her eyes: blazing with fury yet glistening with unshed tears that reflect years of pain and betrayal.

“You’ll do it,” she repeats, her voice steady. Her gaze locks onto Vittorio like a predator sizing up its prey. “Because you owe me that much after everything.” She takes another step closer, her focus never wavering from her husband, even as she addresses the room at large. “You owe your son.”

Vittorio swallows thickly; even from across the room, I notice how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. Whatever Gina is talking about has him in a chokehold.

“None of this would’ve happened,” Gina continues relentlessly, her voice rising just enough to fill every corner of the room without ever tipping into hysteria, “if you hadn’t started a war you couldn’t finish.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Vittorio stares at her for a long moment—too long. His expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening as though he’s biting back an entire storm of words. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating, until I begin to wonder if he’ll say anything at all.

“You made this mess the day you took me from Paris,” she says, walking further into the room. “You dragged your family into the bloodline wars of men who were never going to forgive it.” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the room like a blade. “Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming.”

“This isn’t the same,” Vittorio snaps, his tone rising in defense. His fingers curl into fists, knuckles whitening as he leans forward in his chair.

“No,” she counters coldly, not missing a beat.

Her eyes narrow as she takes another step closer to him, her presence commanding and unwavering.

“This is worse because it’s more than our kid involved—it’s our Nipote, too.

Three fucking generations!” Her voice cracks slightly on the last word, but she doesn’t falter.

“You still haven’t learned a goddamn thing! ”

Her words hang in the air like smoke from a battlefield. I glance between them, trying to piece together what she means.

Vittorio’s lips part as if he’s about to respond, yet no words come out. Silence stretches between them once more—a silence so heavy it feels like it could crush us all.

She exhales sharply through her nose, breaking the quiet with a frustrated shake of her head.

“Calm down, Mama, go sit down before you hurt yourself,” Leone waves his mother off. “I don’t need him to fight my battles, I’ll get them back, I just came?—”

“Came for what, Leone?” his father demands, and if looks could kill, his father would be six feet under already with the glare Leone cuts his way.

“We’re bringing Fallon home. With or without your blessing. I’m only here to warn you of what is happening, so either help us, step aside, or…”

“Or what?” Vittorio snaps again, his voice rising with anger now. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands abruptly, towering over Leone.

Leone doesn’t flinch. Instead, he rises from his chair and steps even closer until they’re nearly nose-to-nose, and only Vittorio is forced to look up at his son, who has a good foot and a half on him.

His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that chills me, and I realize Leone would truly kill his father for her.

For all the talk and the way he treated her, he truly does love Fallon and not just because she is carrying his baby.

“You don’t want the answer to that, Papa.” His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Nobody crosses a Pressutti, you taught me that… even blood.”

For a moment, Vittorio stares at him like he doesn’t recognize his own son anymore. Then, slowly—reluctantly, he nods.

“I’ll reach out to the ones who still owe me,” he says gruffly, his voice low and begrudging. His gaze shifts away from him as though he can no longer bear to meet his eyes. “If Romanov has built a network here… we’ll find it.”

“And Dante?”

Vittorio hesitates—a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he responds. “We don’t know for sure whether?—”

“We know,” Leone interrupts harshly, taking a step forward now. His tone carries an edge that borders on contempt. “We have video proof from the mansion.”

“Dante could be a victim in this for all we know!” Vittorio fires back quickly, defending his other son with an almost desperate fervor.

Leone scoffs loudly—a bitter sound filled with years of resentment boiling over at last. “Always so quick to take his side, Father.” He shakes his head in disbelief before leveling Vittorio with a glare so fierce it could cut steel.

“He isn’t getting out of this either way,” Leone continues, his voice dropping dangerously low now.

“You’ll be burying a son. So it’s time to choose, Father.

” His jaw tightens as he takes another step closer to Vittorio.

“Am I killing my brother… or am I killing a bloodline?”

My breath catches in my throat at Leone’s words—at the cold finality in them—and my eyes dart instinctively toward Gina.

She stands off to the side near the window, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor as though willing herself invisible.

She knows better than to get involved when Vittorio and Leone clash like this; everyone around them gets hurt when their tempers ignite.

Vittorio slams his fist down onto the table suddenly, making me jump.

“He knows better!” he roars, his voice shaking with fury—and something else I can’t quite place: Fear?

Regret? Maybe both. “I taught him better! If he really is working with the Romanovs…” He trails off for a moment before slamming his fist down again, even harder this time.

“…he’s as good as dead already! Stupid little shit! ”

“What do you mean?” Leone asks, and his mother laughs, making everyone’s eyes go back to her. She smirks, looking at her husband. Vittorio glares at her and she holds his gaze unflinching.

“Go on…” Gina sneers mockingly, gesturing toward him with one hand as if inviting him to speak up. Her lips curve into a cruel smile that doesn’t reach her eyes—eyes filled with decades’ worth of bitterness. “Tell him about the war you started… and never had the guts to finish.”