Page 9

FIVE

M ilo

Leone says nothing more after that.

None of us do.

The room is quiet for a few beats while Gina gets control of her emotions.

Across the room, Vittorio winces as he presses his fingertips gingerly to his forehead where the plate struck him.

His lips curl into a grimace as he pulls his hand back and inspects it under the dim kitchen light.

Blood glistens on his fingertips—a stark crimson against his pale skin.

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, the curse sharp and cutting.

He glances briefly at Gina, his expression unreadable, before turning back to assess the damage in the reflection of a nearby stainless-steel microwave.

Gina hiccups a shaky breath, one that sounds dangerously close to a sob she refuses to let out. Her composure is hanging by a thread—no, not even that. It’s hanging by a single frayed fiber of that thread, and everyone in the room knows it.

She’s still sitting where Leone told her to, trying to pull herself together, fingers curled tight in her lap like she is trying to hold herself back from lobbing more objects at her husband.

Rocco shifts uncomfortably in his seat, breaking the stillness with the soft creak of leather under his weight.

His jaw is clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap, and beads of sweat have gathered along his hairline despite the cool air wafting through the house.

He’s clearly in pain—his breathing labored and shallow—he’s too damn stubborn to admit it or ask for help.

We shouldn’t have let him come tonight; we all knew he wasn’t ready after what happened last week.

Rocco? He doesn’t back down from anything, not even when it’s for his own good.

Vittorio remains standing near the kitchen island, his posture deceptively relaxed with an edge that suggests he’s prepared for round two if Gina decides to launch another assault.

His piercing gaze flickers toward her every so often—watchful, calculating—he doesn’t say a word.

His hand lingers near the counter as though steadying himself or perhaps keeping himself from putting her in his place.

He knows Leone would put a bullet in his head if he hurt her.

Despite his sometimes strained relationship with his mother, he does love the woman.

Although right now, I don’t think we need to worry so much about Vittorio’s reaction because Gina looks like she’d kill him if given half a chance. I’ve never seen her this worked up unless she is drunk, so seeing her sober which is rare in itself and riled up is unusual.

Leone stands off to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest with an air of authority that fills the space around him without effort. His eyes remain locked on Vittorio like a predator waiting for its prey to make a move that will seal its fate.

Then Vittorio breaks the spell with an action so casual it borders on absurdity given the circumstances: he straightens his jacket with a sharp tug at its hem, smoothing out invisible wrinkles as though he is preparing for a gala rather than recovering from being assaulted with fine china.

Without looking at anyone directly, he strides to the sink and grabs a clean rag.

He wets it under the faucet before pressing it firmly against his forehead.

“Well,” Vittorio says finally, his voice smooth, carrying just enough bite to show he hasn’t entirely forgiven Gina for her outburst. “Shall we? If there’s going to be more talking—and I assume there will be—I’d prefer we do it somewhere without so many sharp objects lying around while your mother is…

upset.” His gaze slides briefly toward Gina before returning to Leone.

Without waiting for a response, Vittorio turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen, heading down the hall toward the living room like nothing out of the ordinary has transpired. The rag is still pressed against his forehead, blotting away blood that continues to seep sluggishly from the wound.

The rest of us exchange glances—silent questions passing between us.

Rocco groans audibly as he pushes himself upright from his seat, one hand clutching at the doorway for support as he hobbles after us.

His face is pale beneath its usual olive tone, and sweat drips down his temples in rivulets now, when Gina steps forward instinctively—her worry etched across her face—he waves her off with an impatient gesture.

“I’m fine,” Rocco grumbles through gritted teeth. “Go.”

Gina hesitates for half a second before nodding curtly and trailing after Leone and me as we head toward the lounge.

By the time we enter, Vittorio is already making himself at home again like nothing ever happened. He pours himself a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard—same brand, same glass as always—and takes a long sip before settling into one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

“So,” he begins casually, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as though discussing stock options rather than recovering from a domestic skirmish involving airborne crockery.

“What is it you want? You barged in here uninvited and interrupted my evening, though I suppose it wasn’t much of an evening after all. ”

Leone doesn’t rise to meet Vittorio’s provocation; instead, he lowers himself onto one of the couches with deliberate slowness, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped loosely together.

“I came here to warn you,” Leone says evenly, though there’s an edge to his tone that suggests this isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation for anyone involved. “Now I have questions.”

Vittorio raises an eyebrow yet doesn’t interrupt him.

“You said you had ties to people who used to be loyal to Anatoly,” Leone continues, his voice dropping slightly as if weighing each word carefully before releasing it into the air.

“I need names, Vittorio. I need to know who Mikhail is working with, because we both know he’s not doing this alone.

He couldn’t pull this off without serious help. ”

“I already put the word out,” Vittorio replies smoothly as he reaches for the decanter again.

“And?” Leone presses impatiently.

“And,” Vittorio says pointedly as he pours himself another drink and leans back in his chair with infuriating nonchalance, “you’ll know what I know when there’s something worth knowing.”

The tension between them crackles like static electricity—a storm brewing just beneath the surface—Leone doesn’t push further. Not yet.

Instead, he leans back against the couch cushions with an exhale that sounds more like a growl than anything else and mutters under his breath.

“Mikhail Romanov’s not strong enough to take this fight alone,” I say. Vittorio finally glances my way.

“Exactly. He’s been hiding for years. We didn’t even know he was back in the country until he came looking for Penso. If this were about Lydia, he would’ve come for us years ago.” Leone states.

“This isn’t about Lydia,” Vittorio says, like he’s piecing together a puzzle he wishes he didn’t have to solve.

“No,” Leone agrees. “It has to be something more.”

“He wants something,” Vittorio says. “And he’s willing to burn everything to get it. That’s how men like him operate. It’s personal.”

Leone exhales sharply through his nose, a bitter laugh escaping before he can stop it.

“Personal? He wants me to rob the Cartel.” The words come out clipped, laden with disdain.

He meets his father’s gaze head-on, the weight of what he’s about to say pressing down on him like a vice.

“Said it’s the price for keeping her alive. ”

That gets a real reaction from him.

Vittorio curses under his breath. “Of course he does. Anything to…” Vittorio presses his lips into a line and sips his scotch before speaking again. “You do that, and you start a war we can’t afford. Santos won’t just retaliate. It’ll be a bloodbath.”

“I know.”

“Then why even consider it?”

Leone doesn’t answer immediately, instead staring at the coffee table between them. His hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening as he makes a fist. Finally, he peers up at his father—not as an equal, as a man teetering on the edge of desperation.

“Because he has my wife,” Leone says, the words scraping out of him like they’ve been dragged over broken glass.

“Consider yourself a widower. She is not worth a war with the Romanovs.”

The room goes silent—eerily so—as Leone slams his fist down onto the coffee table. The sound reverberates through the space like a gunshot, making everyone present flinch. Even Vittorio jumps slightly in his seat, caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

“She’s fucking pregnant.” Leone snarls.

For a moment, it feels like everything stops.

Vittorio freezes mid-motion, a glass halfway to his lips that never quite makes it there. Instead, he lowers it slowly back onto the table without taking a sip. His eyes are locked on Leone now—not with anger or disappointment, with something closer to disbelief.

Rocco gazes up from where he’s been leaning against the far wall, his expression unreadable save for the faint furrow in his brow. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. Everyone in the room is waiting for Vittorio’s reaction.

“You’re sure?” Vittorio asks finally, breaking the silence.

“Yes. Stevens,” Leone replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil roiling beneath the surface. “We found out just before she was taken.”

Vittorio reaches for his glass and takes a nervous sip and leans back in his chair.

His expression doesn’t shift much—he’s always been good at masking what he feels— there’s a flicker in his eyes that gives him away.

A ripple of something raw and unguarded passes through him before vanishing as quickly as it came.

The idea of an heir has always been Vittorio’s Achilles’ heel—the one thing capable of piercing through his armor of pragmatism and calculated indifference.