The words land hard. She stays, yes, but only because I've trapped her. Because I lied about Tommy, manipulated her into dependency.
"How philosophical," Sofia says, but there's something nervous in her laugh. "I suppose we'll all find out who truly belongs soon enough."
Before I can demand what she means, the doorbell rings.
Sofia's smile widens. "Perfect timing. I invited someone special tonight."
"What did you do?" Marco's voice could freeze blood, but Sofia's already standing, smoothing her cream silk dress.
"I protected this family," she says, moving toward the dining room entrance. "From a dangerous fraud."
The house feels wrong, too quiet except for our voices. Where are the usual sounds? The guards' footsteps, the kitchen staff cleaning up? My neck prickles with the awareness that's kept me alive this long.
My hand finds my gun before conscious thought, but Emma's fingers close over mine under the table.
The dining room doors open, and Frances Hewson enters like she owns the place.
The real Frances Hewson.
She looks eerily similar to Emma, same height, same build, but there's something harder in her features, a brittleness that comes from too much money and not enough warmth. The resemblance that once fooled everyone now seems like a cruel joke. Her smile is all teeth as her gaze lands on Emma.
"Did you really think," Frances says, voice dripping contempt, "you could replace me with a servant and no one would notice? All these weeks of watching my name worn like a costume by the help."
The room erupts. Dante's on his feet, signing rapidly. Nico's hand goes to his weapon. Marco hasn't moved, but the temperature around him drops ten degrees.
Emma stands slowly, and for the first time all week, she looks directly at me. In her eyes, I see that she understands everything: Sofia has brought Frances here. My own sister orchestrated this.
Sofia's triumph flickers, something's wrong. Frances came alone. Where's her escort?
"A servant," Emma says, and there's something almost amused in her tone. "Yes, I was. I scrubbed floors in houseslike this. Learned to be invisible. Learned to survive things that would break someone like you."
"You admitted it!" Sofia cries, triumph and confusion warring in her voice. "You see? She's been lying this entire time! Her identity is completely fake, she's not Frances, she's nobody!"
"Her name is Emma," I say, standing, putting myself partially between my wife and the woman whose name she wore. "Emma Rosetti. And she's more family than you've proven to be tonight, sister."
Sofia's brow furrows, her perfect composure faltering in confusion at my reply. She thought I didn't know.
Frances laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "How touching. The great Alessandro Rosetti, fooled by kitchen help. Wait until the other families hear about this. The Rosettis, taken in by a maid playing dress-up."
"You're right," Emma says, stepping beside me rather than behind. "The truth is exposed. I'm not Frances Hewson. I never wanted to be. Your name was just a yoke your mother forced me to wear."
"You want to know the really funny part?" Frances pulls out her phone, typing quickly. "This isn't even about exposing your fake marriage anymore."
The dining room windows explode inward.
Russians pour through, a full dozen, Bratva tattoos visible on their necks. The Volkov family crest. Nico reacts first, diving to shield Ana, while Luca shoves his pregnant wife Faith under the table.
"What did you do?" Sofia screams at Frances, all her smugness evaporating into horror.
Frances laughs but there's confusion in it now. A man steps through the shattered window frame with predatory grace. Younger than expected, perhaps early thirties, with pale eyes that mirror the Moscow winter. The Volkov family crest gleamson his cufflinks, but it's the controlled violence in his movements that marks him as dangerous.
"The Hewson girl contacted us after she escaped her wedding," he says, his accent barely there, cultivated to blend in. "She thought she was hiring mercenaries for her petty revenge. She never realized she was auditioning for a much older play."
"You promised me safe passage to Moscow," Frances says, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "I help you eliminate both families' leadership, and I disappear with—"
"You disappear, yes," the man says coolly. "Just not to Moscow. But first, you'll serve your purpose. Start with Alessandro. He's the one who humiliated you by marrying a fake."
His pale eyes find Sofia, and something shifts in his expression. Colder. Focused. "Hello, Sofia."
