The old man looks up. His eyes are glassy with pain, but the venom is still there.
"You think this is over?" Salvatore hisses. "You think you can just take it? It's mine. I built it."
Alessandro stops. He looks down at his father.
"You built a lie, Father," Alessandro says. His voice is calm, terrifyingly so. "You built a slaughterhouse and called it a kingdom. And you sold your sons to keep the lights on."
"I did what I had to do!" Salvatore shouts, spit flying from his lips. "To survive! To keep us on top!"
"And where are you now?" Alessandro asks.
He gestures to the room. To the dead bodies. To the zip-tied Russians. To Padraic's corpse cooling on the concrete.
"You're alone," Alessandro says. "You have no army. You have no leverage. You have nothing."
"I have you!" Salvatore screams. "You are my blood! You are a Falcone!"
"I am," Alessandro says. He tightens his grip on my hand. "But I am his husband first."
The silence that follows that statement is heavier than the gunfire. It is a declaration of independence. A rewriting of the laws of gravity.
Salvatore stares at us. He looks at our joined hands. And for the first time, I see the fear in his eyes. He realizes he has lost not just the war, but the legacy.
"Rocco," Alessandro says.
Rocco steps forward.
"Get him a doctor," Alessandro says. "Patch him up. Then take him to the estate. Put him under house arrest. Cut the phones. Cut the internet. He speaks to no one."
"Understood," Rocco says. He looks at his father with a mixture of pity and resolve. "Come on, Pop. Let's go."
Salvatore tries to stand, but he stumbles. Rocco catches him. He supports the old man's weight, half-carrying him toward the exit.
We watch them go.
Then we walk.
We walk out of the dry dock and into the night air. The rain has stopped, but the air is thick with mist. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and the sharp, tearing pain in my side.
I stumble.
Alessandro catches me instantly. His arm goes around my waist, taking my weight.
"I've got you," he says.
"I know."
We make it to the Volvo. It looks battered, bullet-riddled, a survivor of a war it wasn't built for. Just like us.
Alessandro opens the passenger door. He helps me in.
He walks around to the driver's side. He gets in. He starts the engine.
He doesn't drive immediately. He sits there, gripping the wheel, staring out the windshield.
"He's dead," Alessandro says softly. "Your father."
"Yeah."
