Page 24

24

Alessio

I feel her warmth against me as we crouch in the darkness, waiting. Isadora’s breath comes in soft, controlled measures against my neck, her body pressed close in the confined space of the hunting lodge’s service corridor. Even with death potentially minutes away, the heat of her ignites something primal in me. I breathe in her scent—jasmine and gunpowder, a combination that shouldn’t be as intoxicating as it is.

“They’re all here,” Vittorio’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “De Angelis arrived five minutes ago. Ricci and his capos took the east entrance. Luca’s positioned himself at the head table with Giancarlo in a wheelchair beside him.”

My father. Still alive, though weakened from the bullet wounds. The monster I’ve hunted for twenty years, sitting like a wounded king while his treacherous son plays the dutiful heir.

“Guards?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“Sixteen visible. Probably more we can’t see. The usual suspects.” Vittorio pauses. “It’s not too late to walk away, Stefano.”

Isadora’s hand finds mine in the darkness, her fingers intertwining with mine. A silent declaration that we’re past the point of walking away.

“Stick to the plan,” I reply. “On my signal.”

I turn to Isadora, taking in her fierce beauty in the dim emergency lighting. The bruise on her cheek has faded to a yellowish shadow, and beneath her black tactical gear, I know fresh bandages cover the almost healed wound on her side. She should be recovering, not infiltrating a mafia summit. But no force on earth could’ve kept her away, not even me.

“Last chance to change your mind, principessa.” I brush my lips against her temple, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. “No one would blame you for sitting this out.”

Her eyes flash with familiar defiance. “I’m done sitting out my own life,” she whispers. “Tonight, we end this. Together.”

She rises on her toes to claim my mouth in a kiss that tastes of danger and determination. Her tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, a reminder of what we’re fighting for. My hand snakes to her waist, careful of her injury even as desire courses through me. When she pulls back, I see it mirrored in her dilated pupils—the same desperate hunger that’s been consuming me since that first night in the club.

“For luck,” she says against my lips, then pulls her weapon from its holster. “Let’s go make history.”

We move silently through the service corridor toward the grand hall where the three families have gathered. The hunting lodge—a neutral meeting ground for generations of mafia negotiations—feels like an appropriate stage for tonight’s reckoning. Marble floors that will soon know blood. Antique tables that have witnessed a century of criminal dealings. And now, the final act of a tragedy twenty years in the making.

I position myself behind the service entrance, Isadora flanking me. Through the crack in the door, I can see them all—the architects of my revenge and Isadora’s captivity, gathered like Roman senators on the Ides of March.

Antonio De Angelis, Isadora’s father, sits stiffly across from Marco Ricci. At the head of the massive oak table sits Luca, preening in his new power. And beside him, diminished but still radiating malevolence, is the man who fathered me.

Isadora’s breath catches as she spots her father. I squeeze her hand once, a silent promise. Whatever happens next, we face it together.

“Now,” I whisper into my comm, and the room plunges into darkness as Vittorio cuts the main power.

In the confusion of shouts and overturned chairs, we make our move. The emergency generators kick in seconds later, bathing the hall in dim red light that turns every shadow into a potential threat. My men have already neutralized the guards at the perimeter, and now they stream in through the main entrances, weapons raised.

The air in the room is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, cigars, and something darker—fear. Giancarlo sits beside his son at the head of the long oak table, flanked by his second in command, lieutenants and loyalists, Luca to his right, Suzette to his left. I can feel Isadora's presence behind me, her gaze steady, giving me strength.

This is it. No more games. No more lies.

I step into the meeting hall, Isadora moving in perfect sync beside me.

“Gentlemen,” I call out, my voice carrying across the sudden silence. “I believe this meeting is missing a key party.”

Every head turns toward us. I see the shock register on the faces around the table as they recognize me—Alessio Gravano, the enforcer who vanished with the De Angelis girl. But it’s Giancarlo’s reaction I’m watching for. The old man’s eyes widen slightly, and I see uncertainty flicker in those amber depths, so similar to my own.

Antonio calls out to Isadora, “What do you think you are doing?” He stutters angrily. “Did this bastard make you do this?”

“No, Papa, you will soon find out the truth.”

“Impossible,” Giancarlo whispers, the word escaping before he can trap it. “Luca said you ran to Canada.”

“Did I?” I move closer, keeping Isadora at my side as my men secure the room. “Nothing’s impossible when you’ve spent twenty years planning, Father.”

The word drops like a bomb in the silent hall. Antonio De Angelis half-rises from his chair, his gaze darting between me and his daughter.

“Isadora,” he manages, his voice breaking. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The truth, Father,” she replies, her voice steady despite the tension radiating through her body. “Something our families have been short on for decades.”

I step forward, feeling decades of rage and purpose crystallize into this single moment.

“My name is not Alessio Gravano,” I announce, my voice carrying to every corner of the room. “I am Stefano Calvino, firstborn son of Giancarlo Calvino and Sophia Mancini. The son this man ordered murdered alongside his mother more than thirty years ago.”

Chaos erupts around the table. Marco Ricci’s men draw weapons. De Angelis’s capos look to their boss for direction. And Luca—my half-brother—rises slowly, his face contorted with rage.

“This is absurd,” he spits, lying to protect himself and his inheritance. “My father’s son died in a fire. Everyone knows this.”

“A convenient story,” I agree, circling the table like a predator. Isadora moves with me, covering my blind spots as if we’ve been fighting together for years instead of days. “A house fire that destroyed all evidence. No identifiable remains. Just a grieving widower who remarried with suspicious speed.”

I nod to Vittorio, who projects images onto the wall—crime scene photos, financial records, death certificates. The evidence I’ve spent two decades collecting.

“Giancarlo Calvino murdered his first wife to marry his mistress—your mother, Luca. He eliminated a son who stood between him and complete control of the Mancini territory.” I pause, letting the truth sink in. “But he failed. I survived. And I’ve spent twenty decades becoming the instrument of his destruction.”

Giancarlo’s face has gone ashen in the red emergency lighting. He grips the arms of his wheelchair, knuckles white.

“You have no proof,” he rasps, trying to regain control.

“I have every proof.” I nod to Vittorio again, who advances the presentation. “Bank transfers to the hitmen who killed my mother. Your own signed orders, preserved by your former consigliere before his convenient ‘heart attack. DNA tests confirming my identity.”

I feel Isadora tense beside me, her eyes fixed on something across the room. I follow her gaze to see Luca slowly reaching inside his jacket.

“And that’s not all,” she says, her voice cutting through the tension. “Tell them about your own plans, Luca. Tell them how you’ve been siphoning funds from all three families for years, preparing your own coup.”

Luca freezes, his hand still inside his jacket. His eyes narrow as they fix on Isadora.

“You lying bitch,” he hisses. “You’d say anything to save your new lover.”

“Would I?” She steps forward, her confidence making my chest tighten with pride and desire even in this deadly moment. “Then explain these.” She produces copies of documents from inside her tactical vest—account statements, offshore holdings, communications with the Colombians that bypass all three families’ established channels.

“And oh, Capo Vieri has confirmed every shady thing you have used him to carry out, to sabotage your own father.”

The look on Luca’s face is worth every scar I’ve earned in twenty years of planning. Pure, undiluted shock, followed by calculating rage.

“You’ve doomed us all,” he spits, pulling his weapon. But before he can aim, Vittorio disarms him.

I toss another manila folder onto the center of the table. It lands with a slap that echoes like a gunshot.

"What is this?" Giancarlo asks, his voice deceptively calm.

"Proof," I say, my tone colder than the steel tucked against my back. "Proof that Luca Calvino is not your biological son."

A hushed silence falls over the room. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Giancarlo chuckles—a low, dismissive sound.

"You expect me to believe this? Some forged documents?"

I lean forward, my hands braced on the table. "You think it’s forged? Why not confirm from your dear wife?"

His eyes flick to Luca, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Giancarlo's fingers twitch toward the folder, but he doesn't open it. Instead, he turns his gaze—sharp and venomous—to Suzette.

"Explain," he demands.

Suzette’s expression doesn't change. She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her designer dress and looks Giancarlo dead in the eye.

"What did you expect, Giancarlo?" she says, her voice like silk over a dagger. "Loyalty? After what you did to Stefano's mother even if you were fucking her?"

The room tightens around us, a collective inhalation waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Giancarlo pushes back from the table, rising to his full height despite his injuries, his face mottled with rage. "It was part of the plan!" he roars. "You knew the plan! We were building an empire!"

Suzette tilts her head, a smile ghosting her lips. "No, Giancarlo. You were building your empire. I was ensuring my son would rule it."

The room shudders under the weight of her words.

Giancarlo’s face twists, betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. His shoulders sag, the weight of years crashing down all at once. A low, bitter laugh rumbles from his chest, broken and hollow. He shakes his head slowly, as if he can't believe the farce of his own life.

A single tear—angry, and helpless—slips down his weathered cheek.

He looks at Suzette, eyes bloodshot and wide with something almost childlike in its devastation.

"I gave up a good and dutiful woman just to be with you," he says in a small hoarse voice. "And you do this to me?"

Suzette doesn't flinch. She watches him with detached coldness, the perfect executioner. “You showed me how to get power at any cost. I only learned from the best.”

Giancarlo moves faster than any of us can react. His gun clears the holster, and with a deafening crack, a bullet tears through Suzette’s forehead.

She crumples to the floor, her eyes wide with disbelief even in death. Her blood pools around her in a grotesque halo.

Before the shock can fully register, Giancarlo turns and fires again, this time into the chest of his second-in-command. The man collapses without a sound.

Giancarlo sways, gun trembling in his hand. His gaze lifts to mine. For the first time, he looks utterly human—broken, small, lost.

He meets my eyes and breathes out my real name in a rasp. "Stefano..."

I hold his gaze, my chest tight.

"I'm sorry," he says, almost a whisper, thick with something that might be regret—or maybe just a final, desperate plea for absolution.

Then, without waiting for forgiveness, Giancarlo turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger.

The room plunges into chaos.

Blood. So much blood.

For a moment, there is only stunned silence. Then a ragged sob—Luca. He stands over his mother's body, shaking, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

I straighten, my pulse thundering in my ears. The culmination of two decades of planning lies at my feet, wrapped in death and silence. Giancarlo's reign is over. But as I look at Luca, broken and feral with grief, a flicker of unease twists inside me.

I move toward Isadora, needing to get her out, to shield her from the carnage we’ve unleashed. My hand itches for hers, for the anchor she has become in the storm that is my life. In my mind, I’m already planning the next move—securing the estate, rallying my men, ensuring no one loyal to the old regime rises against us.

The sharp intake of breath cuts through the thick silence.

The scrape of a shoe against the marble floor.

I turn—too late.

A gunshot cracks the air.

Pain explodes in my back, hot and blinding.

I hit the ground hard, the breath driven from my lungs. Through the haze of agony, I see Luca standing over me, gun in hand, tears streaming down his face.

"You stole everything!" he screams, voice raw and breaking.

Isadora is there in an instant, throwing herself between Luca and me. Vittorio and my men surge forward, disarming Luca, dragging him away as he thrashes and curses.

I struggle to breathe, the pain knifing through me with every heartbeat. Every pulse is a hammer strike of agony.

"Stay with me," Isadora pleads, pressing her hands to my wound, her touch the only anchor in a world spiraling into darkness.

I lock eyes with her, forcing a smile. For her. Always for her.

"Not… going anywhere," I rasp, though the darkness claws at the edges of my vision.

Giancarlo's empire has fallen. The truth has been dragged into the light. Blood has paid for blood.

And in Isadora's eyes, I see the only future worth fighting for.

Even if I have to claw my way back from the edge of death to claim it.