Alessandro’s gaze meets mine, and there’s something dark in it.
“That was your father,” he says quietly.
My heart stutters. “My father?”
“He wants you to come to his home,” Alessandro continues. “He says your mother wants to see you. And he wants to speak with me.”
That… doesn’t make sense. They haven’t reached out. Not once. Not even when I was hurt.
My stomach twists. “Why now?”
“I don’t know.” Alessandro reaches for me, pulling me into his arms. “But I will be with you the entire time. Do you understand me? I’m not leaving your side.”
Before I can respond, Rocco steps forward.
“I’m coming too.”
Alessandro nods once, already expecting it.
But Rocco’s gaze finds mine, steady and sure.
“You’re not walking into that house without all of us. Not happening.”
The car ride is suffocating. No one speaks. Not even Rocco.
Alessandro sits beside me—one hand gripping mine so tightly our knuckles turn white. His jaw flexes every few seconds, the muscle ticking with restrained violence.
Rocco is in the drivers seat, staring out the windshield as if expecting enemies to materialize from thin air.
And maybe they will.
When we finally pull through the ornate gates of my childhood home, my stomach twists so tightly I almost double over.
I grew up behind these walls. But now they feel like cages.
The front door opens before we even reach it.
My father steps out. Viktor Volkov. Pakhan of the Bratva. My father.
His cold gaze sweeps past me as if I’m a piece of furniture.
Then he walks straight to Alessandro.
“Mr. Moretti,” he says with a curt nod, extending his hand.
Alessandro shakes it, but his brow dips. He noticed.
My father doesn’t even look at me.
“Rocco,” Viktor adds, giving the soldier a clipped nod.
Rocco responds professionally but his eyes flicker with irritation.
I? I get nothing. Not a glance. Not a word. Like always.
“Come,” Viktor says, turning his back to us. “We will speak in my office.”
Rocco moves behind me instantly—fierce, protective—his presence like a shield as we walk inside.
