“I know,” I say. “And I will handle it, Danny. All of it. But right now… we focus on your mother.”
He nods solemnly. His eyes drift across her face, a soft, distant smile tugging at his lips.
“Do you remember the first time we went to the cabin?”
A faint smile breaks through my grief. “Yes. She loved that place. Always loved the lake nearby. She said she felt the most at peace there.”
“I want to take her there when she’s better,” Danny says quietly. “She’s always happier there.”
I hum in agreement.
“Do you remember Uncle Marcello?”
He nods. “I do. Mama and I were just talking about Maria the other day. They’re settled in Italy now. Happy.”
“They are,” I say, my thoughts drifting to the many conversations Marcello and I had over the years. “And I want that for you both. Safe and happy.”
“Papa?”
The questionin his tone sharpens my spine. He senses something. “Is there something you and Mama aren’t telling me?”
Silence stretches between us.
“Papa,”he presses, firmer this time.
I exhale slowly, choosing my words. “After your mother gets better… things will need to change. For her sake. For all of ours.”
“But—change how?” His voice tightens.
“We’ve let this world take too much from her already,” I say quietly. “I should’ve protected her better. I should’ve ended this sooner.”
His jaw sets, hardening. “Papa… don’t start talking like everything you built is suddenly a burden.”
“It’s not the empire,” I tell him. “It’s the war around it. The toll.” A beat. “I won’t let it touch her again.”
“But it will,” he snaps—not out of disrespect, but fear. “As long as Giacomo breathes, it will. This isn’t about walking away. This is about finishing it.”
There’s fire in his eyes now.
He steps closer, voice low, unshakable.
“Giacomo will be dealt with, that I can promise you. Even if I have to do it myself.”
“No.” There is no room in my tone for argument. “You are not going toe-to-toe with that devil. Do you hear me? This ends withmeand him.”
“Then end it, Papa.” His voice is low, steady, dangerous. “Stop wasting time and put a bullet in his head.”
My grip tightens around my wife’s limp hand.
I stare at my son—and for a moment, I’m looking at someone else entirely. His eyes burn with a hatred so sharp, it steals the breath from my lungs. A flash of something hot and poisonous.
Something I’ve seen before. In another man.
Giacomo.
“You always told me that a Davacalli doesn’t cower. But all we’ve been doing for months is cowering.”
He dropshis mother’s hand and circles the bed to stand beside me, shoulders squared, jaw locked.
