Page 8

FOUR

L eone

Milo drives.

I stare straight ahead as we turn onto the private road leading up to my father’s estate. The hedges are trimmed to symmetry. The stone wall running the length of the property is smooth and spotless. Everything about this place is polished, expensive, and untouched by time.

The gates open without us stopping. Security systems built into the stone pillars blink green. Milo doesn’t speak. None of us do.

We pass manicured lawns. Fountains with gold statues. Imported palm trees that don’t belong in this climate yet somehow thrive here, anyway. I catch sight of the stables in the distance, the same ones I used to sneak out to just to get away from the main house.

Then it appears.

The mansion is massive—white stone, black-framed windows, arched balconies, and double staircases leading to a carved front door big enough to fit a car through. The facade is perfect—not a leaf out of place, not a crack in sight. The whole place looks like a museum: built to impress, not to feel.

Milo pulls the car up to the front circle. The marble fountain in the center is still running, even now. A cherub pours water from a vase into a pool lined with blue mosaic tile. There’s not a speck of dirt on it.

I’ve been in castles less pretentious than this.

None of it means anything.

It’s beautiful. Grand. Expensive.

I never felt safe here.

I get out of the car and slam the door harder than I mean to. The wind carries the scent of citrus from the trees in the courtyard, another carefully chosen detail. Everything about this house is curated, controlled, and designed to reflect power.

Rocco steps out behind me, gazing up at the building. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. We both hate this place.

We’re halfway up the front steps when something shatters inside the house.

Then comes the screaming.

My heart kicks hard in my chest. I don’t wait. I rush to the door, slam my boot into it, and kick it open. It bursts inward, banging against the wall.

The foyer is as grand as I remember—white floors, gold inlays, a chandelier the size of a car hanging above us, its crystals sparkling in the light. The staircase splits in two, winding up toward the second floor.

I don’t stop to admire it. I follow the noise down the hall, through the arched doorway into the kitchen.

My mother is standing barefoot in front of the glass cabinet, wild hair falling over her shoulders, silk robe slipping down one arm. Her face is flushed, streaked with tears. Her hands tremble as she grabs another porcelain plate from the shelf and hurls it.

It crashes into the wall near my father’s head.

Vittorio barely flinches. Blood runs down the side of his face from a cut above his eyebrow. He holds a dish towel in one hand, not even pressing it to the wound. Just watching her like she’s coming undone in slow motion.

“You did this!” she screams, voice shrill, raw. “All of this— everything —is your fault! I warned you back then and now look!”

“As if anyone saw this shit coming; I took care of him. I didn’t think the prick would come back,” he says, calm like he always is when it makes things worse. “What do you expect of me, Gina? I can’t change the past.”

“You wouldn’t even if you could, you’d do it all again, I know you would !” she shouts.

She grabs a teacup. Throws it. This one hits. Shatters against his shoulder. Vittorio winces but doesn’t move.

“You told me it would be different. That Leone would be free. That you weren’t going to make him into you!”

“I didn’t,” he says, voice tight. “And this isn’t helping.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m being emotional ! She’s gone, Vittorio!” Her voice cracks. “And you’re already washing your hands of it. You’ve killed them both.”

“Enough!” I bark.

They both stop.

My mother turns, eyes wide. Her lips part like she forgot there were other people in the world and clearly she was not expecting visitors.

My father looks at me. Calm though he is bleeding from the cut on his head.

I walk farther into the kitchen and stop between them.

“My wife is missing,” I say evenly. “And you two are here smashing plates and screaming like a pair of spoiled kids.”

My mother’s face crumples. She opens her mouth, and I cut her off, pointing to the nearest dining chair.

“Sit. Now.”

She sinks into the seat, hands covering her face. Her shoulders tremble. I don’t know what she is crying about, and I need to find out if I want my father’s help.

Footsteps behind me.

Rocco and Milo enter. Rocco peers around like he just walked into a battlefield, which, by the smashed china, might as well be. His gaze lands on the blood running down my father’s temple.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, glancing at my mother briefly. “She did that?”

“Yes,” I say without looking back.

He staggers toward a chair, one hand on his abdomen in an attempt to not jostle his wound too much, and drops into it. Milo stands near the door, quiet, watching.

My father tosses the bloodied towel into the sink.

“Why are you here?” he says, staring at me.

“I came to ask for your help. Mikhail reached out to me.”

“And now you have the room. So ask before she throws something else at me.”