I roll to the side as his foot comes down where my head was a second before, then sweep his legs and send him crashing to the ground beside me.
We’re both exhausted now, our movements becoming sluggish and uncoordinated.
“She kissed me first,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.
He tries to get up, but his legs give out and he slumps against the overturned chair. “She’s traumatized. She wasn’t thinking clearly.”
The words hang in the air, and I realize what I just said.
What I just tried to do.
Christ, I’m blaming a nineteen-year-old girl who just had her world destroyed for my own lack of control.
“Fuck.” I push myself up to a sitting position, my ribs screaming in protest. “I should have pulled away. She was vulnerable and I took advantage of that. There’s no excuse for what I did.”
We sit there in the wreckage, both of us bleeding and breathing hard, the immediate fury finally burning itself out.
The fight has left us both battered and exhausted, but something has shifted between us.
The violence has purged some of the poison, leaving behind something more honest.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” Matteo says finally, his voice hoarse from exertion and emotion.
“I think I do.” I wipe blood from my split lip. “I saw her face during that fight. I saw Giuseppe looking back at me.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him again. “She’s not him.”
“No, she’s not. But she’s his daughter, and pretending that doesn’t matter isn’t protecting her anymore.” I struggle to my feet, every muscle in my body protesting. “She’s going to embrace that darkness whether we like it or not.”
“And that doesn’t terrify you?” He remains slumped against the chair, looking older than I’ve ever seen him before. It’s almost terrifying to see Matteo DeLuca look human.
“It should.” I run a hand through my disheveled hair, wincing at the large lump near my temple. “But it doesn’t. If anything, it makes her more herself, not less.”
Matteo stares at me for a long moment, his battered features impassive. “You’re serious about this,” he finally says.
“Dead serious,” I respond, lips quirking at the pun but then hissing as the movement stretches the cut on my lower lip.
“You understand what you’re saying? You’re talking about loving someone who just proved she’s capable of real cruelty.”
I stare at him incredulously. “Are you serious right now? You’re lecturingmeabout loving someone capable of cruelty? You killed your own wife, Matteo. Bianca’s mother. You’ve ordered executions, torture, countless acts of violence. And you’re worried about Bianca beingcruel?”
He winces, but I’m not done. “Every person in our world is capable of cruelty. The difference is whether they use it as a tool or let it consume them. You of all people should understand that.”
I think about Bianca’s face during the fight, the delight when she hurt him, the way she dismantled their relationship piece by piece.
He’s not wrong—there was something genuinely frightening about watching her embrace that darkness.
But there was also something magnificent about it. Something powerful and uncompromising that made every protective instinct in me roar to life.
“I understand perfectly what I’m saying.” I lean against the desk for support. “I won’t let her become Giuseppe, but I won’t try to save her from who she’s choosing to become either.”
“And if she chooses wrong?”
“Then I’ll be there to help her find her way back.” The words come out with more conviction than I feel. “But she has tomake the choice herself. No more lies, no more protection from uncomfortable truths.”
Matteo closes his eyes, and I can see the exhaustion weighing on him. “The Families meeting?—”
“I’ll be with her.” The decision feels inevitable, like something I’ve been building toward for years without realizing it. “She’ll reject your guidance right now, but she might accept mine.”
