He lets out a sound, half laugh, half sob. “You have your mother’s madness,” he says. “She was never satisfied either. Always chasing something just out of reach.”
Dahlia shakes her head. “I’m not chasing anything. I want this.”
His face goes blank. The old Don is back, mask welded tight. “You have one chance,” he says. “Walk away with me now, and I’ll forgive everything. I’ll make it like none of this happened.”
She wipes her face, and I see the tears now, burning lines down her cheeks. But she doesn’t break.
“I can’t,” she says. “I won’t.”
He looks at me again. “You did this. You broke her.”
I step forward, careful, hands open. I want him to swing. I want any excuse to end him right here.
But Dahlia moves faster, putting herself between us.
“Don’t,” she says. “Please, Papa. Please don’t make me hate you.”
For a second, no one moves.
While everyone is tense, ready for another shootout, Julian hums a funeral tune under his breath.
The lights above cast shadows that make everyone look like monsters.
Aurelio holds his daughter’s eyes for a long, ugly second.
“I see,” he says.
He doesn’t move.
She wipes her face, but the tears don’t stop. “Please. I love him,” she says, and the world fractures on that word. The Kings’ men look away, embarrassed for their boss. The other side grins, already smelling victory.
Julian smiles like he’s at a play. He loves this shit.
But me—I feel like I’m about to snap the bones in my own hand from how hard I’m holding back from charging in and ending this.
Dahlia’s voice cracks. “Please, Papa, remember Mama. Remember how Nonno hated her until he died? Please don’t be like him.”
Aurelio staggers, just a half step, but it’s enough. The mask slips and for a heartbeat he’s just a father, old and tired, who lost everything and is about to lose the last thing he cares about.
Her words find the soft spot.
“Let me go. I promise, I’ll come back,” she says. “Just… maybe stronger than how I left.”
He stands there, fighting every instinct. The men around him shift, waiting for his order, waiting for a reason to pull a trigger.
Finally, he lets out a breath so long it’s almost a death rattle. He lifts a hand, and the suits around him lower their guns—not all the way, but enough.
He points at me.
“This isn’t over, boy,” he spits. “Not by a long shot.”
I don’t blink. I wrap my arm around Dahlia’s waist, holding her upright, holding her together. She leans into me, shivering with what’s left of the fight.
The Don walks away, suit immaculate, every step deliberate. His men follow, eyes fixed straight ahead, not stopping to look at the carnage on the ground.
The corridor is silent.
Julian lets out a whistle, sharp and bright. “Well, that was fun,” he says, and I want to laugh, but my body is too full of violence.
