“Thanks,” I say, letting out a humorless laugh. “I need to find Nina and my son. I’m going to lose my mind knowing all this and not being able to do anything.”
I rake my hands through my hair, focused on the only thing that matters in this entire mess—my woman and my son, whom I don’t even feel entitled to call that.
Tears I haven’t felt in years spill freely, dotting the smooth surface of the kitchen table where I’m sitting. Whether it’sbecause I feel safe or because I’m desperate, a sobbing, convulsive cry breaks loose.
None of them move. None of them react. They just watch me.
Drako is sitting on the table beside me. Apollo stands leaning against the counter. Atlas finally seems to have come back from wherever he disappeared to, watching me from the armchair in the living room.
I don’t try to stop crying. I don’t even want to. It’s both suffocating and freeing.
I was wrong all this time about the only person I loved. The only one who mattered. And even wrecked inside—by the violence of the truth and by everything I did to her—I smile. Because being wrong is everything I ever wanted.
Atlas stands with purpose and walks toward me. There’s something in his eyes that puts me on alert, and I get up too.
“I know where Nina is,” he says.
The words land like a challenge, not a gift.
“Where?” I ask, feeding off the dark satisfaction in his gaze, hope swelling in my chest at the same speed as suspicion.
“Pienza, Italy,” he answers, cold and economical.
It’s the same look he used to give when he advised us to do something, one of us ignored him, and everything went to hell. He never cared if he went down too—as long as he was right.
And with the absolute certainty that I’ll regret it instantly, I ask:
“How do you know that, Atlas?”
I articulate each syllable slowly, carefully, tension spiraling around us. Apollo and Drako step closer, sensing the shift.
“Five years ago,” he says, “I helped her disappear.”
I don’t even hear myself move.
The next thing I register is his jaw crashing into my clenched fist at an unstoppable speed. I don’t know where the strength comes from—before I realize it, I hit him again. And again.
It’s like I’m watching it from outside my body. Detached. The only sounds I hear are the dull, dry impacts of fist against bone.
I stumble back, shaking. Part of me wants to kill my brother—and then I realize the other part wants it too. My mind lags behind the murderous instinct my body rushed to obey.
Apollo steps between us when I go for him again. I miss by inches.
“That’s enough, Nero. You can hit him again later. Let him finish the story—I’m curious,” Apollo says.
Drako looks from me to Atlas, who stands there resigned, carefully testing his jaw with small movements. He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t say a word. Drako, on the other hand, won’t shut up.
“I think he can take a bit more. Come on, Nero—two more and then we hear the rest,” the youngest provokes.
The twins glare at him. I keep my focus on Atlas, shoving past Apollo and grabbing Atlas by the shirt. His twin ends up stuck between us.
Drako plops into the armchair like this is harmless entertainment—just like when we were kids. Apollo judges him silently.
“Oh, for God’s sake. What drama. Nero wants to punch him, Atlas wants to be punched. I want to watch,” Drako shrugs at Apollo’s look. “If Atlas wanted to defend himself, Nero wouldn’t have laid a finger on him. Or do I need to remind everyone he’s a black belt in jiu-jitsu and hasn’t lost a competition since he was twenty-three?”
Apollo turns his head, remembering. That detail had slipped past me too. If Atlas wanted to, he could seriously hurt me just by reacting—but he didn’t. He didn’t even try. He took it willingly.
Pain has never been a problem for him. I should have remembered that.
