Page 48

My breath stutters as I see my brother alive again, even if just on a screen. He looks worn—tense, on edge. He stands with a few men.

Suddenly, a canister clatters across the concrete floor, spinning before releasing a thick cloud of gas that quickly spreads through the warehouse.

The men inside react instantly—hands going to masks, bandanas, anything to shield themselves.

Antonio pulls his biker mask over his face, eyes narrowing as the haze swallows the room.

The edges of the footage blur slightly from the fog, but the tension only sharpens.

This wasn’t just a meeting. It was an ambush.

Then the warehouse door bursts open with a loud metallic bang. Figures step through the thick haze—shadows at first, until the camera adjusts.

My world tilts.

“He was there…” I barely hear my own voice.

I watch in a trance as he strides forward, his presence commanding even in the grainy footage.

Matteo emerges from the smoke like it parts just for him, moving with the kind of confidence that makes everyone else seem like background noise. His son is right behind him with a few other men, hands resting on their weapons.

As soon as they cross the threshold, they pull masks over their faces in one smooth, practiced motion—like they’ve done this before. Like they knew exactly what they were walking into.

Behind Matteo, his men fan out in swift, deliberate strides—ghostlike through the swirling gas, their silhouettes distorted in the flickering light.

Everything is chaos: smoke clings to the floor, the hum of static from the footage cuts in and out, and every figure is masked, indistinct.

It’s impossible to tell friend from foe.

Suddenly, a man lunges from behind a support beam, grabbing Daniele and pressing a gun to his head. Matteo reacts instantly—raising his weapon, aiming directly at the man.

“Put the gun down!” Matteo’s voice is firm, commanding, even through the haze of static audio. His gun doesn’t waver. He’s trying to talk the man down, waiting for the moment.

Daniele’s eyes are wide, locked on Matteo.

And then—before Matteo can shoot, another figure leaps into the frame from behind, moving fast, colliding with him.

Even through the grainy footage, I recognize the way he moves.

Antonio.

My breath stops.

He slams into Matteo with full force, knocking him off balance. The two of them crash to the ground, grappling as Daniele seizes the distraction. He slams his elbow into the attacker’s ribs, twisting hard, and manages to knock the gun away.

The fight splinters in two directions.

Daniele wrestles with the armed man, fists flying, until he grabs a broken pipe from the ground and slams it into the man’s skull. The body slumps.

But Matteo is still struggling.

He and Antonio are locked in a brutal, fast-paced fight. Blows land hard. Grunts, the scuff of boots, the static buzz of the footage. Neither is holding back.

Antonio throws a punch that nearly connects, but Matteo ducks, slamming him into a crate.

The camera shifts just enough to catch the flash of a blade in Antonio’s hand.

Matteo knocks it aside and reaches for his gun—but Antonio grabs his wrist. They wrestle, limbs locked, struggling for control. Somewhere in the blur—a gun catches the light. It shifts between them, caught in both their hands.

The camera trembles too hard to follow, turning the moment into a fever dream of chaos.

A shot rings out. Loud. Sudden.

A single, deafening crack that cuts through the static and smoke.

“No…” My fingers brush the screen just as someone pulls the trigger.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. No one breathes. The smoke swirls like a curtain over a stage, obscuring the cost.

I can’t tell who fired.

Can’t even tell, at first, who was hit.

But then—one of them drops.

Antonio.

Blood pools beneath him like ink spreading across paper.

Matteo stumbles back, breath caught in his chest, gun still trembling in his grip.

Antonio drops to his knees, then collapses to the floor, the mask still covering his face.

A sharp, gasping sob rips from my throat. I slap my hand over my mouth, my entire body locking up as the video keeps playing. Antonio lies motionless, but his chest lifts in short, shallow bursts. Still breathing. Still here.

Matteo scrambles forward, falling to his knees. His hands shake as he reaches out slowly—like something inside him already knows. He pulls the biker mask from the man lying in a pool of spreading red and freezes.

My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat.

He sees the face. The face of my brother.

Matteo goes pale. He recoils—his expression cracks—and for a single second, I see something flicker in his gaze.

Horror. Realization. Guilt.

Then the video cuts off.

The screen turns black, and it’s all over.

Silence.

Five minutes, thirty-four seconds.

That’s how long it took for my world to fall apart.

I sit frozen, staring at the black screen, my pulse hammering against my skull. For the first time, my mind is quiet, still reeling from shock of what I just witnessed.

No.

This can’t be real.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

It has to be manipulated—edited—something. Matteo wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But I saw it. I saw him do it.

My stomach twists uncomfortably, and before I can stop myself, I shove the laptop aside and sprint toward the bathroom. I barely make it before I’m on my knees, emptying what little’s left in me.

Everything inside me rebels, my body rejecting what I just saw, what I now know. When there’s nothing left, I slump against the wall, gasping for air, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I grip my stomach, my fingers digging into the fabric of my dress.

The timer on my phone goes off in my room. The test. The test is done.

I quiver against the cold tiles, but I find the strength to get back onto my feet. With shaking legs, I make my way back to my bed. I barely have the strength to hold myself up at the moment. I look down at my duvet, and I pause.

“Shit.” The curse leaves my lips softly, but the gravity of sorrow that it carries is immense. I look down at it again, making sure that I am seeing things correctly.

Pregnant: 8-9 weeks.

My world shatters. The word screams at me. There it is in big, bold letters. My body feels disconnected from my mind, as if I’m floating outside of myself, watching this moment from a distance.

A baby.

Matteo’s baby.

The man I just watched kill my brother.

A broken sigh escapes me as I stumble back against the counter, my stomach twisting into knots. My mind is a tangled mess of thoughts, none of them making sense, none of them offering relief.

Five minutes and thirty-four seconds. That’s how long the video was. That’s how long it took for my husband to shoot down my brother.

What the hell am I going to do?

I shake my head, whispering to myself, “No. No, this isn’t real.”

My brother is dead, and the man I love—the man whose child I am carrying—pulled the trigger. For weeks, I have mourned the death of my brother—my father’s sole heir. The entire reason I had to get married in the first place.

Now it all makes sense. Giacomo’s words to me the gala ring loudly in my head like a resounding gong. They clang against my skull with no remorse.

A sob claws up my throat, but I swallow it down, pressing my hand over my mouth. I can’t afford to break. Not yet. I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at nothing, lost in my own storm. Eventually, a soft knock at the door startles me back to reality.

“Signora?” One of Matteo’s men speaks from behind my door. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

A pause. Then, “Do you need anything?”

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No. I just need a moment.”

Another hesitation. “Very well, Signora. I can send for a doctor if you need it.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Okay, you can just call if you need anything.” I hear the footsteps retreat from the door.

I release a slow, shaky breath, forcing my body to move. I can’t stay here.

With trembling hands, I walk back into the bathroom, and I wrap the pregnancy test in tissue and tuck it deep into the trash bin, as if hiding it could make it less real. As if pretending it doesn’t exist will stop the reality from closing in on me.

I move on autopilot, walking back to the bedroom. The laptop is still on the bed, the flash drive plugged in, the black screen like a gaping void, pulling me back into the nightmare. I force myself to shut it, tucking the drive away where Matteo won’t find it. Not yet.

Not until I know what to do.

Because right now, I don’t.

I have no answers. No plan. No idea how to move past the crushing weight of knowing that my child’s father is also my brother’s killer.

All I have is this secret growing inside me. And a truth that could destroy everything—that has destroyed everything.

What the hell am I supposed to do…

Carry his child while burying my brother?

Love a man I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive?

And the worst part?

I don’t even know if I want to.