"Stephano," I whisper, but he won’t look at me. His eyes are on the wall, on the blood, on the ghost of the father he thought he had.
"It still doesn’t make sense," he mutters. "Why would he want his own son dead?"
I inhale slowly, because someone has to think straight, and right now he can’t. "Because he plays both sides of the sword," I remind him softly. "You told me that."
His head jerks, the truth cutting deeper now.
"He sent Nico," I continue, "because a murdered Conti son in foreign territory would’ve forced Edoardo to act. Forced the other capos to unite. Forced the entire Five Families to rally behind the grieving father."
Stephano squeezes his eyes shut, agony ripping down his jaw.
"He never wanted to be Don," I say. "He wanted to be the man who makes Dons. The power behind the throne. The kingmaker." I let that settle for a moment. Before I continue, "And there’s no faster way to earn a Don’s loyalty than by losing something precious whileprotectinghis interests."
Stephano’s breath shudders, ragged. "No—Gustave wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do that for Edoardo?—"
"He would," I cut in gently, ruthlessly. "Because Donna Margarita was controlling Edoardo. She had leverage over him. Strings he couldn’t cut. If she had Leonardo killed—and Silvestre helped her—then they were both too powerful, too insulated. He couldn’t remove them through politics."
"So he used Nico," Stephano whispers, horrified. "Used him to expose them."
"Yes," I say. "A big sacrifice. Big enough no one would question it. Big enough to make Gustave look like the wronged patriarch. The man who lost a son because foreign snakes dared strike the Contis."
Stephano’s voice tears itself out of him. "He sent him to die."
"He gambled him," I correct softly. "And in Gustave’s mind, it wasn’t even a gamble. It was a win-win."
Stephano’s eyes snap to mine, shaking.
"If Valverde and Margarita killed Nico," I explain, "your father got his war. His unity. His power. Edoardo would become his puppet out of grief and obligation. Gustave would become indispensable."
Stephano staggers a breath.
"But if they didn’t kill Nico?" I continue, the blade sliding deeper. "If they kicked him out? If they laughed at the accusation? If they showed they had nothing to hide?" I tilt my head. "Then Gustave would have learned something just as valuable: that Valverde and Donna Margarita hadnothingto do with Leonardo’s death. That they weren’t blackmailing Edoardo. That Gustave had been chasing the wrong enemies."
His face drains of color.
"He would have adjusted," I say. "Recalibrated. Redirected the war machine in another direction." A cruel truth. A brilliant strategy. "He wins either way, Stephano. That’s who your father is."
Stephano’s voice breaks. "And if neither outcome played the way he wanted—if his son lived but wasn’tuseful?—"
"Then he still had you," I finish and squeeze his hand like I’m anchoring him to the earth. "…the son he wanted. The weapon he was shaping. The heir he intended to use next."
He stares at nothing; his chest is rising too fast, the realization slicing straight through him. My voice softens. I hate this moment for him, but truth doesn’t bend, it straightens your back or breaks you. "He plays both sides. And in his mind, Nico’s death wasn’t murder. It was strategy. It was… pruning."
A sound escapes Stephano, nothing weak, nothing broken. It’s a low, sharp laugh carved out of something feral. A promise. A warning. The kind of sound a man makes when the last piece of illusion has been ripped from him, and all that’s left is vengeance.
His shoulders pull tight, his spine straightens, and when he lifts his head, there’s a new light in his eyes—cold, merciless, ruthless with fury.
Not grief.
Not confusion.
Resolve.
I’ve seen killers. I’ve made killers.
But I’ve never seen a man transform so completely in a single breath. Revenge burns there, bright and clean as a blade fresh from the fire.
Not reckless.
