Page 71 of Vows Made in Silence

“I think it’s dangerous.”

Neto nods.

“We read it. Every name. Every deal. Every betrayal."

He looks at me for a long moment, something between respect and fear settling in his expression.

“You’re not your father.”

“No,” I echo. “I’m worse.”

He leaves without another word.

I walk out of this hell hole and call Turk letting him know it's time we head back to the compound to finish this.

The compound is quiet. For now.

My phone buzzes again. A message from Giuliana.

"You were right. It started with your father. But it ends with us."

And it will.

Because this war isn’t over.

It’s just changed shape.

I find myself in the war room, behind the desk where power has always shifted hands in whispers and blood. My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind refuses to slow. Every piece is on the board now. Sal. The ledger. Giuliana's message. And me.

I don't get the luxury of rest. Not now.

I need to think. I need to strike.

One final move.

Checkmate.

I lean back in the chair for a long moment, but it’s not enough. The war room’s silence is too loud. I get up and walk to the leather couch in the corner—where I used to sit with Neto late at night, where my father planned assassinations over whiskey.

Now it’s just me.

I sink into the cushions, and the ache hits me all at once. Bone-deep. Not from any one thing—but everything.

Vegas was supposed to be a crown jewel. A test. I came here to solidify power, maybe prove to the Old Guard that I could rule without their leash. I didn’t expect to dig up ghosts.

I didn’t expect to see Giuliana again.

And I sure as hell didn’t expect to find out I had a son.

But it happened.

And still—none of that weighs on me like Giuliana’s voice when she said it ends with us.

Us.

My family. And now I can’t stop until we are all safe and I am fully in charge.

I think of Sal. Gaetano. Tommaso. My father. Every face I’ve erased to get here. Some deserved it. Others—maybe not. And I wonder if I’m still carving out justice… or just trying to survive the man I’ve become. Haunted? Hardened? I don’t know. But I’m still standing. And I’m not done yet. I wonder if I’m still myself—or just the last man standing.