Fuck.
My throat tightens, and something thick and oily works its way up from my gut. Rage. Revulsion. Not at the fact that I’m their son, I’ve already made peace with one half of thattruth. I’ve learned to live with the blood of a king in my veins.
Butthis?
No.
Not her.
Of all the people. All the cruel, manipulative, cold-hearted monsters in this world…it had to be her?
I feel like vomiting.
She’s watching me, waiting for a reaction, waiting for me to sink to my knees in front of her. Toworshipher. Tothankher. Like the mere revelation of who she is should undo me. Like I should fall apart at the honor of her attention.
She’s full enough of herself to believe anyone would be grateful—eternally grateful—for a second of her presence, her power, her precious name.
And that?
That’s what makes me sickest of all.
But I don’t move.
Not a twitch.
It’s the only thing I can control right now. My skin crawls just remembering the way she looked at Sophia, as if she were filth. Like she didn’t matter, and now she wants me to believe she’s mymother?
My jaw clenches. The pressure in my chest is so tight I can barely breathe. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and I have to force myself not to put them through the wall. There is no part inside me that doubts her truth. Unfortunately, it all adds up too conveniently. Donna Margarita might be a lying, manipulative bitch, but she wouldn't need to lie about something like this.
I glance at Sophia. She’s gone rigid, and her eyes are glassy but unblinking, like she's trapped in some horror she can't wake up from.
That makes it worse.
That makes itpersonal.
"I see you need time," Donna Margarita says, as if this is a dinner party and not an emotional assassination.
"Get out," I say.
For a second, I think she'll obey my command, but I should know better. She starts walking toward me. When she reaches me, she presses a hand to my chest like it means something. Like it should heal something.
"Don’t you see?" she says softly. "I’m your mother."
The words land like acid on my skin.
"I searched for you," she says, her hand still resting over my heart like she has a right to it. "For thirty years.They took you from me. Carlos… that bastardo traditore.Hestoleyou.Hidyou. We could’ve had everything." Her voice catches, just enough to sound human—almost. "They have to pay for what they did to us. For keeping us apart."
She looks up into my eyes, dark with conviction. "I can help you. You deserve your rightful place. You deserve to be Don.Nothing less."
My jaw is locked, and my pulse is hammering. She leans in closer; her scotch-mixed breath brushes my cheek. "And you’ll need me," she murmurs. "Whether you like it or not. Without my protection—myclout—you’ll be dead within a week."
There it is—the threat dressed up as a favor. A knife slipped beneath a hug.
"You’re a threat to Edoardo," she says, too calm. "And to half of La Famiglia.You think you can survive this alone?"
Sophia stirs by my side. She steps forward, all confidence and self-assurance, her voice calm yet cutting. "Oh, lady," she says, with a soft laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes, "you think yourself so clever."
Donna Margarita’s hand drops from my chest, and her attention snaps toward Sophia with thinly veiled contempt. But Sophia stands her ground, her eyes bright with fury. "Your son?" she pushes her chin forward proudly, "he’s already ten steps ahead of you."
