I leave Viktor's ghost in the ashes where it belongs.
But I'm alive. She's alive. And I'll burn down heaven and hell before I let his poison destroy her for one more day.
I'll carve the truth into anyone who tries to stop me from reaching her.
I love her. She's going to know the truth. And then, God help me, I'm never letting her go again.
29 - Sofia
I’m hiding in the pink walls of my childhood bedroom while they mock me with their innocence. I have barely set foot in here since the night of the massacre, choosing to sleep down the hall instead. But here I am.
Ballet posters stare down from where I tacked them up at twelve, frozen dancers in perfect positions I'll never achieve again. This shrine to the girl who didn't know she'd destroy everything feels like a tomb now. My throat is so tight I have to force each breath past the grief lodged there like broken glass. My hands won't stop shaking since Marco told me to get out.
The tray Nico brought this morning sits untouched on my old desk. Toast gone cold, coffee forming a skin on top. The smell of it makes my stomach revolt. How can I eat when my father's last meal was interrupted by bullets I could have prevented?
I check my phone again. Nothing from Marco. His silence is louder than any accusation could be.
A knock. Firm, decisive. Nico again.
"Family meeting," he says through the door, his voice carrying that military edge. "Downstairs. Now."
I don't move from where I'm curled on the narrow bed, knees to chest, still wearing the same tattered clothes I arrived in. The cotton sticks to my skin with dried sweat and tears. "I'm not hungry."
"It's not about food, and it's not negotiable. Family meeting. Now."
Something in his tone makes me look up. This isn't gentle Nico checking on me. This is the soldier giving orders.
"Marco?" I ask, already knowing, the word scraping my raw throat.
A pause that tells me everything. "He's not coming."
The words land like stones in my chest, each one heavier than the last until I can barely breathe around them. My oldest brother, who raised us all after Papa died, who held this family together with pure will, refuses to be in the same room as me.
"Be there in five minutes," Nico says. "Don't make me carry you."
His footsteps retreat. I uncurl slowly, joints protesting from holding the same position too long. The mirror on my old vanity shows a ghost: hollow eyes, tangled hair, the general look of someone who's been drowning in guilt. The ghost of Alexei's hands still burns on my skin. My body remembers even if my heart is too broken to care.
The walk downstairs feels like approaching my execution. Each step on the familiar stairs brings back a thousand memories of running down these same steps as a child, racing Alessandro to breakfast, sliding down the banister until Maria caught us. The marble is cold under my bare feet, each step sending shivers up my legs. Now I descend like a condemned woman, the chill seeping into my bones.
The family room door stands open. I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene that makes my stomach clench. The leather and wood polish scent that usually comforts me now feels suffocating.
Dante stands by the window, still as always, afternoon light casting his profile in sharp relief. The smell of cigarette smoke clings to his clothes, sharper than usual, like he's been chain-smoking. There's something in his posture that speaks of decisions made. Luca paces the far wall like something caged,his usual lazy grace replaced with barely contained violence. Every few seconds his hand twitches toward where he keeps his knives. Alessandro sits on the leather couch, staring at his hands, unable or unwilling to look up as I enter.
And there, at the head of the table where he's sat for eleven years, Marco's chair stands empty.
The absence is louder than any accusation. That chair has never been empty during a family meeting. Not once since Papa died. Even when Marco was shot, he was there, bleeding through bandages but present. Now it sits vacant, a monument to my betrayal.
Nico guides me to a chair with a hand on my elbow, gentle but firm. The leather is cold against my bare legs, making me shiver. He positions himself beside me, solid and warm, a wall between me and whatever comes next. Guardian. Protector. The brother who made a pact of truth with me that I've shattered beyond repair.
"Sit," he says softly, his cinnamon gum scent familiar and heartbreaking.
I sink deeper into the chair, pulling my knees up despite knowing it makes me look like a child. The room feels too large, too empty. We're missing people. Marco's absence creates a vacuum that pulls at all of us, destabilizing everything.
This is my trial. My brothers as judge and jury. And I already know the verdict.
Dante breaks the silence, turning from the window with that liquid grace that makes people forget he can't speak until they realize he hasn't. The soft whisper of his clothes moving through air is the only sound.
"We need to talk about what you told Marco," he signs, each movement precise, his hands cutting through the afternoon light.
