"I already have." I pulled the folder from my bag—the one Dante had kept from me, the one I'd found in his file room. Surveillance logs. Intercepted communications. Financial records showing payments to the clinic. "It's all here. Every detail. Every transaction. Your authorization on the order."
Lorenzo's face hardened. "That means nothing. You think anyone will believe a defector? A whore playing at power?"
"I think they'll believe what I show them." I dropped the folder at his feet. "But that's not why I came."
"No?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the cologne he wore—bergamot and cedar, the scent of my childhood nightmares. "Then whydidyou come, Julietta? To prove something? To yourself? To Taviani?"
"To you." I met his gaze, held it. "You planned to kill me. Two weeks after the wedding in Tuscany. Make it look like the Suarez family did it. Start a war. Consolidate power while everyone else bled."
His expression didn't change. Didn't deny it.
"Miguel was never supposed to be my husband," I continued. "He was supposed to be my murderer. And you were going to profit from my corpse."
"Smart girl." Lorenzo smiled, thin and cold. "You always were sharper than I gave you credit for. Shame you wasted it on sentiment."
"Sentiment?" My hands curled into fists. "You callsurvivalsentiment?"
"I call crawling to Taviani for protection weakness." He circled again, his guards shifting with him. "You had a chance to be part of something great. A dynasty. An empire that would have lasted generations. Instead, you threw it away for what? Love?" He spat the word like poison. "You're just like Elena. Weak. Emotional. Worthless."
"You're wrong." My voice came out steady, clear. "About all of it. I'm not weak. I'm not worthless. And I'm not yours anymore."
"You'll always be mine." Lorenzo stopped in front of me, his hand shooting out to grab my chin. "Blood doesn't lie,figlia. You can play queen with Taviani all you want, but underneath, you're still that scared little girl who did everything I told her to. You'll never be anything more."
I stared at him. At the man who'd shaped seven years of my life with threats and manipulation. At the monster who'd murdered my mother and planned to murder me.
And I smiled.
"You just confessed," I said softly. "Smile for the fall, Father."
His grip tightened. "What?"
I lifted my left hand, showing him the small device clipped to my bracelet. A recorder. Red light blinking.
"Every word," I whispered. "Elena. Miguel. Tuscany. The contracts. The murder. All of it. Recorded. Uploaded. Already in the hands of people who matter."
Lorenzo's face went white. Then red. His hand released my chin, reaching for the gun at his waist—
The cathedral doors exploded inward.
Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Men poured through—Dante's soldiers, tactical gear, weapons raised. Shouts echoed off stone. Lorenzo's guards reached for their guns, but they were too slow. Gunfire erupted, sharp cracks that punched through the holy silence.
One guard dropped. The other staggered, crimson spreading across his shoulder, and collapsed.
Dante walked through the chaos like a storm made flesh. His eyes locked on Lorenzo, coffee dark and merciless. Behind him, Vince and Marcos moved with practiced precision—Vince sweeping right with aggressive efficiency, Marcos left with calculated coverage, cutting off every exit.
"Taviani—" Lorenzo started.
"On your knees." Dante's voice was granite.
"You don't have the authority—"
Marcos fired. Once. Precise. The bullet hit the floor exactly two inches from Lorenzo's foot—close enough to terrify, far enough to avoid ricochets. Marble chips sprayed. Calculated intimidation.
Lorenzo dropped. Knees hitting stone with a crack that made me wince.
Dante crossed to me, his hand finding my waist, pulling me back and away. "You good?"
"Perfect." I didn't take my eyes off Lorenzo.
