The mention of last night's violence makes Emma's hand find mine under the table, her fingers tracing my split knuckles with a tenderness that makes my chest crack. She trusts me completely, even knowing I came to her bed with blood under my fingernails.
Sofia looks around the table, searching for support. But the family has already chosen sides, and she knows it. Dante won't meet her eyes. Nico shifts uncomfortably. Luca actually looks sympathetic, which from him is practically a declaration of concern.
Emma hasn't moved, hasn't spoken. Her complete stillness, her trust that I'll handle this, it makes something roar in my chest.
Sofia storms out without another word, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the ancestral portraits. The sound echoes through awkward silence as everyone processes what just happened. The scent of gun oil from my weapon mingles with Emma's jasmine perfume, violence and beauty intertwined.
"Well," Luca says after a long moment. "That was uncomfortable. Even for us."
Nico clears his throat. "Perhaps we should focus on the actual threats? The blackmailers are still out there."
Emma finally moves, her hand squeezing mine before she speaks. "My analysis stands," she says quietly, but with the authority I've been teaching her. "They're using servant networks. I can predict their next moves because I understand how invisible people think."
Marco studies her for a long moment, then nods. "Can you tell us who the blackmailers are? We don't know how long until they lose their patience, and if we don't counteract them by then, who knows what information about our business they will leak."
Emma takes a deep breath. "It must be the Hewsons."
"Your parents?" Marco asks sharply.
"Right, my parents," Emma continues smoothly. "We looked into your family before the wedding. Due diligence, and all that. They must have figured they could use me as leverage over you for some extra money." She chuckles. "They've always been business folks first."
"They will need watching," Dante signs. "If–"
"I'll handle the Hewsons," I interrupt, already imagining Mrs.Hewson's throat under my hands. "Personally. They've been nervous since the wedding. Time to find out why."
The meeting dissolves into logistics, but the energy has shifted. Everyone's thinking about Sofia's accusation, even if they won't voice it. Emma maintains her composure, contributing when asked, but I can feel the effort it's costing her. Her thigh trembles slightly under my touch, and I stroke higher, reminding her that she's not alone.
When Marco finally dismisses everyone, Emma and I are the last to leave. Her hand in mine trembles slightly, the only sign of what this cost her.
We're almost to the door when Marco's voice stops us.
"Alex. A moment. In my private study."
Emma looks at me, and I squeeze her hand. "Go ahead to our room. I'll be right there."
She nods, understanding this is something I need to handle alone. When she's gone, Marco gestures toward his private office, the one where real family business gets decided. I follow him through the heavy oak door, the one that's witnessed every major Rosetti decision for three generations.
Once we're alone in his private sanctuary, surrounded by leather-bound books and the faint scent of our father's cigars, Marco moves to the window, his back to me.
"Your wife is clever," he says quietly. "Almost too clever for a sheltered heiress."
"She's adapted well to our life." My hand drifts to my gun again, calculating how many seconds it would take to draw if this goes wrong.
"Has she?" Marco turns, his eyes boring into mine. "Or did she already know how to navigate it?"
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression neutral. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. Yet." He pours two glasses of whiskey from the decanter on his desk, the good stuff he only breaks out for serious conversations. "But Sofia's not usually wrong about people. So either your sister has completely fallen apart, or…"
"Or what?"
"Or we need to talk. Tomorrow morning, after we implement your wife's plan." His hand settles on my shoulder, brotherly and threatening at once. "Whatever truth you're hiding, Alex, it better not endanger this family."
The weight of his grip reminds me that blood means everything and nothing in our world. That I've already chosen Emma over truth, over family, over my own survival if necessary.
"My wife is exactly who she needs to be," I say carefully. "For this family. For me."
Marco studies me for a long moment. "Tomorrow, then. And Alex? Come prepared to tell me everything, or come prepared to lose everything. Your choice."
