He crosses the room in three strides, and suddenly he's drawn a knife from somewhere on his person. The blade appears in his hand like deadly magic, silver death catching the afternoon light. My body knows that knife, has seen it splatter walls red, has watched it work with surgical precision.
"We blamed the Morettis for years!" His voice cracks, actual tears in those pale blue eyes that never cry. "Then the Russians. And all along Sofia could have prevented it. Dante, your own wife wanted to kill you over this!"
"And I didn't let her," Dante signs calmly. "Just like I'm not letting you do this."
Luca's closer now, close enough that I can see his hand shaking. Not from fear. From rage so pure it's making his whole body vibrate like a struck tuning fork.
"Papa DIED. Uncle Enzo. Cousin Matteo. Twenty-three years old with a pregnant wife. Because she was fucking a Volkov!"
"Luca—" Nico steps between us in one smooth motion, his body a wall between me and that trembling blade. The movement displaces air, his warmth suddenly blocking the chill from the air conditioning.
"Get out of my way, Nico."
"No."
The word hangs in the air like a challenge. Two brothers, both lethal, both trained to kill, facing off over me. The tension makes the air feel electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"She's a TRAITOR."
"She's our SISTER."
"She stopped being our sister when she chose a Volkov over our blood."
Alessandro finally speaks, his voice cracked. "Luca. Put the knife down."
"Don't tell me what to do, Alex." Luca's eyes never leave mine over Nico's shoulder. "You weren't there. You didn't see Papa's body. Didn't see what they did to him."
Nico doesn't move, solid as stone between us. "You want to hurt her, you go through me first."
Luca falters, just slightly. The knife drops an inch.
"You're protecting a traitor."
"I'm protecting our sister. The girl I trained. The girl who's had nightmares for eleven years about something she couldn't even remember. The girl who's been punishing herself every single day since Papa died."
"It's not ENOUGH."
"Then how much is enough, Luca?" Nico's voice drops, deadly quiet. "You want her dead? You want to be the one to do it? You want to look her in the eyes and put that knife in her chest? Because I'll tell you right now, you put that knife inher, you better put one in me too. I'm not living in a family that murders its own."
The standoff stretches, everything balanced on a knife's edge. Luca's hand shakes harder now, the blade catching light as it trembles. His face is wet, actual tears streaming down, and I realize I've never seen Luca cry. Not at Papa's funeral. Not when Dante couldn't speak. Not after his first kill–Mikhail. Never.
The silence feels physical, pressing against my eardrums.
Then, with a sound like breaking, he spins and throws the knife. It flies across the room and embeds in the wall with a solid thunk, vibrating from the force. Plaster dust drifts down like snow. The silence after is deafening.
Luca storms out, slamming the door so hard a picture falls off the wall, glass shattering against marble.
Alessandro still won't look at me directly, but when he speaks, his voice is steady. "I don't… I can't understand. Not yet." He finally meets my eyes, and the hurt there makes my chest cave in. "But I don't want you dead."
It's not forgiveness. But it's not nothing either.
A commotion erupts outside. Shouting. Guards mobilizing. The sound of running feet on gravel, orders barked in English and Italian. The rapid-fire commands overlap, creating chaos.
Dante moves to the window first, that deadly grace making him seem to glide across the floor. He goes completely still.
"You need to see this," he signs, not looking away from whatever's outside.
We crowd to the window, even Alessandro drawn by the urgency in Dante's stillness. Through the bulletproof glass, I see our front gate, the guards with weapons raised, all aimed at something.
