Chapter Twelve

Dante

T hey say when you seek revenge, dig two graves.

And fuck, I think they were right because I must’ve started digging mine the moment I decided to punish Francesca and the Vescari by making her my wife.

That decision was supposed to bring satisfaction. Control. Balance to the betrayal.

Instead, I’m here. Not in my office. Not handling shipments, not expanding my territory.

I’m sitting in Judge Rizzo’s too-bright living room, drinking a bitter espresso I didn’t ask for, trying not to scowl at the way his daughter offers me a plate of almond cookies with the kind of open joy I haven’t seen in years.

“Grazie, cara,” he says, patting her hand gently before she disappears down the hallway, humming some childish tune that makes the silence feel even heavier once it fades.

He waits until she’s out of earshot before turning to me. His eyes are calm but sharp. The eyes of a man who’s seen every kind of monster come through his doors—and who knows when one is pretending not to be one.

“You look like shit,” Rizzo says flatly.

“I feel worse.”

“Regret doesn’t suit you, Forzi.”

“It’s not regret,” I lie. “It’s logistics.”

“Right. Logistics.” He sips his coffee and studies me like I’m some kind of broken machine he’s deciding whether to fix or scrap. “And what does logistics want with me today?”

“I want to talk about Francesca.”

Rizzo’s expression hardens. He shakes his head. “You know I can’t. My role is sacred. I don’t share information about other famiglia.”

“This isn’t the same.”

He cocks his head. “And why’s that? Because you’re Dante Forzi, and that makes you special?” A dry laugh escapes him. “I’ve heard that one before. Many times.”

I press my lips together, my jaw tight. I don’t like being mocked, but I know better than to push him. He’s one of the untouchables. A pillar of order in a world built on chaos. The man who keeps us from devouring each other alive.

“I’m not,” I mutter. “But she is. I saw you’re fond of her. Which, I believe, is technically not allowed.”

His brows lift a fraction. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Forzi?” His voice doesn’t rise, but the threat in it is unmistakable.

“That’s beneath you. And let me be very clear: I can have preferences.

I’m human, after all. What I can’t do is let that influence my judgment, which, should anyone ever question, I’ll have no problem justifying. ”

I grit my teeth. This angle isn’t working. I decide to shift tactics.

“Fine. You can’t share anything. But answer me this—if I had asked for death, as prescribed by the code, would you have granted it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lifts his cup and takes a slow, measured sip. He knows exactly what I’m doing, and he’s deciding how much to give me.

“You know Anika will never be like other girls,” he says suddenly, and I blink.

I glance toward the hallway where his daughter had just disappeared, confused by the shift. “What does that have to do with?—”

“She’s twenty-two now. But she’ll never be fully independent.

She’s the sun of my life and her mother’s, our brightest joy.

God made her a little different. Soft, radiant, vulnerable.

I wouldn’t change a thing.” His voice gentles.

“But there was a time she wanted what she called a normal life. Friends. School. So we sent her to Bonaventura Academy. Quietly. No one knew who she was—not for her safety, and to give her that chance. ”

I watch him, uncertain where he’s going.

“She was targeted,” he continues. “Mocked. Isolated. Teenagers can be cruel. Vicious. But there was a girl… a year older, sharp as glass and gentle as silk. She never asked who Anika was. Never used her. She simply took my daughter under her wing. Protected her. Ate lunch with her every day. Took her shopping. Sat with her during meltdowns. That girl showed kindness for no reward. No power. Just because it was right.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“That girl was Francesca Mori.”

Something sharp slices through me—shame, maybe. Or guilt. Or something even uglier. It lodges in my chest like shrapnel, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

I don’t speak. Just sit there, staring.

“The answer to your question is no,” Rizzo says quietly. “I would not have granted death.”

I lean back in the chair, exhaling slowly through my nose, trying to mask the knot tightening behind my ribs. That pain loosens something, some internal latch I didn’t even know was there, and what slips out next surprises even me.

“She’s not playing the game like I expected,” I say quietly. “She’s… distant. Robotic. And when she does show emotion, it’s only for the children. Or for him.”

“Bruno?”

The way he says it makes something twist in me. Everyone knows. Everyone sees it. Their affection, their loyalty, their unspoken understanding.

And I hate it. I hate him .

“And it bothers you?”

“I don’t give a damn what she feels for him,” I snap, even though the words taste like a lie.

I remember it. The way she looked at him back in the judge’s office—her voice cracking, her eyes darting to him like he was her anchor.

“But she looked at me once like I was the villain in her story. And I can’t stop thinking… what if I am?”

Rizzo sets down his cup with careful precision. His face is unreadable.

“This is an easy answer,” he says. “You married a girl you thought was a traitor. You humiliated her. Threatened her. Put a gun to her head. And now you’re surprised she doesn’t look at you like a knight in shining armor?”

His words land like a series of punches, but I don’t flinch.

“She lied,” I bite out. “She spied. She got close to my children, my family , and sold me out.”

“And yet here you are,” he says softly. “Asking why it doesn’t feel like a victory.”

I look away, my jaw clenched. But I know why. I keep remembering the way she used to look. The spark in her smile when she talked to the twins. The ease. The warmth.

And then I remember the night I took it all away. The blank stare. The stillness. The silence.

And there it is, that poisonous whisper again: Does she really deserve it?

Rizzo presses a button on his phone. I hear her voice. Crackling. Tense. Sharp with fear.

It’s a recording. Her on the phone with her father. He’s asking for the children. Offering her freedom in return.

And she—she threatens him. Offers her life instead. Tells him if he touches even a single hair on their heads, she’ll give me everything. Even more.

The audio clicks off.

“I—” My voice breaks. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.

Rizzo stands, suddenly more imposing than any capo I’ve ever faced. “You need to leave now,” he says firmly. “I’ve already said too much.”

I rise, but I don’t move.

“And Dante? Maybe it’s time to decide if you’re going to keep punishing her for being her father’s pawn…” He meets my eyes. “Or start owning the fact that you’re no better than the men who ruined her.”

I’m in an even fouler mood by the time I pull up to the house. Judge Rizzo said a lot without saying anything, but it was enough. Too much.

Death was the real punishment. The code’s sentence for betrayal. And by refusing to grant it, Rizzo all but admitted he knew she wasn’t acting on her own. That she was coerced. Manipulated. A pawn in her father’s game.

And still, she tried to protect my children. Threatened her own family for mine. And I— I fucking coerced her.

I grind my teeth so hard I feel something shift in my jaw.

The moment I step out of the car, my gaze flicks toward the guest house. The one I exiled Bruno to.

And there he is, shirtless, lifting weights like this is his goddamn vacation home. The way his muscles flex. The way his expression doesn’t shift when he catches me watching.

Something in me snaps, and I start walking.

My feet move before I’ve even decided what I’m going to say or do.

All I know is I need the tension in my fists to land somewhere, and right now, there’s a perfect target standing on my property, looking too relaxed, too familiar.

Too close to her.

I throw the door open without knocking. Bruno looks up but doesn’t flinch. Just sets the dumbbell down and wipes his face with a towel.

“Are you fucking her?” I can’t help but bark. I know it’s irrational because I know for a fact I was her first and probably still her only.

He looks at me silently before shrugging. “What if I am?”

The man wants to die. “You know what it will cost you? You know the code.”

He shrugs again, grabbing a bottle of water. “I know what the code says about wives, but you made it clear what her role is, and it’s in your contract.”

His words are like gasoline on an already raging fire.

I take a step forward, fists clenched. “You think that contract gives you permission to touch her?”

“I think,” he says calmly, slipping on his T-shirt, “that you made it very fucking clear she’s not your wife in anything but name. Your words, not mine. ”

“You smug son of a—” I grab him by the collar and slam him against the nearest beam, the wood groaning behind his weight.

My fist rises before I’ve even thought it through, but I stop one inch from his jaw. My hand shakes, knuckles white with the restraint I didn’t know I had.

I want to hit him. God, I do. But I want to understand more. I want to win more.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t resist. Doesn’t fight back. His calm is infuriating.

“You want her?” I growl. “You want to play protector? Fine. Let’s see how long that lasts when your blood’s decorating my fucking floor.”

“You already bled her,” he spits. “You held a gun to her head and dragged her to an altar. You think I’m the villain here?”

“She spied on me!”

“She protected your children!”

That stops me cold. My grip falters. My heart hammers.

“She did more for them than any of your soldiers would,” he continues, his voice quiet but hard. “She reads bedtime stories. Lunches packed just the way they like. She kisses their bruises and laughs at their jokes. And she did it all knowing any day, someone could put a bullet in her head.”

I step back, my breath ragged, and my fists slowly unclenching.

Bruno straightens his shirt, no smugness left in his expression. Just weariness. Like he's been holding the weight of this for a long damn time .

“I don’t need to fuck her to care, Forzi,” he says, calm as stone. “I already do.”

I stare at him, blood roaring in my ears, the echo of my own actions crashing down on me.

“She’s mine,” I say, but the words come out flat. Lifeless. Even I can hear the lie in them.

Bruno gives me a half smile, all venom. “No, she’s not. And she never will be. Not in any way that matters. And you’ve got no one to blame for that but yourself.”

My jaw ticks. “Does she know?”

He frowns. “Know what?”

“That you’re in love with her?”

His expression twists like I’ve insulted him. “Jesus, Forzi. You really don’t know a damn thing.”

And then it clicks. A memory, a pattern, a thousand little threads snapping into place. I see it in the color of his eyes, or maybe I want to see it because if I’m right, the entire game changes.

“You’re not in love with her,” I say slowly. “It’s deeper than that. You asked to be here. Requested it.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares, the silence thick between us.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” I press.

He exhales hard. “What’s your grand revelation now?”

I let it land between us, cold and certain.

“You’re her brother.”

The silence that follows isn’t denial. It’s confirmation.

Of course. Same eyes. Same spine. Same stupid, self-sacrificing instincts. How the fuck did I miss it?

Bruno doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at me like he’s waiting to see what kind of man I’ll be next.

“Does she know?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He leans back slightly, folding his arms. “Francesca feels everything too deeply. She always has. If she knew… it would break her.”

“Because you’re a bastard?”

A flicker of pain crosses his face. “Because she’d see it as another injustice. Another secret kept from her. She’d blame herself somehow or try to fix it. She’d hate that I’ve been part of Mori’s inner circle, even if it was just to protect her.”

I frown, unsettled. “So she’s miserable now?”

His voice drops, rough around the edges.

“She’s been miserable her whole life. You’ve seen the way she disappears, goes quiet and small like she’s trying to become invisible.

That didn’t start with you.” He meets my eyes.

There’s no malice there, just truth. “She’s been surviving since she was a child.

I couldn’t stop it then. I just… didn’t want to add to the weight she’s already carrying. ”

“I—” I start, but the words fall flat. Useless.

“I’m done with this conversation.” He grabs his towel from the bench, his movements clipped and final. “If you want answers, ask her yourself.”

I should let him go. I should. But just before he disappears through the bedroom door, I speak again, reluctantly.

“Why do you say she’ll never be mine?”

He pauses, back still to me. And then, without turning around, he answers .

“Because you showed her the monster behind the mask.” He stops for a beat. “She’ll never forget.”

He walks away, leaving me standing in the silence he’s carved open like a wound.

The monster behind the mask.

And I have no idea how to put it back on.