"I want time with my son. No more excuses from Katerina, no more barriers. He deserves to know his father."
Something flickers across Alessandro's face, not quite sympathy, but understanding.
"That's between you and Katerina," he says. "But I won't stand in your way."
It's the closest thing to an olive branch I'm going to get. I nod once and turn to leave.
"Luca." Alessandro's voice stops me at the door. "If you are the leak… if you're working with the Russians… I won't hesitate to put you in the ground myself."
I meet his gaze steadily. "Maybe you have the balls to lead, after all."
Outside his office, I let out a breath, shocked at the shitshow my family has become. It appears that someone close to us is betraying the family. Someone who knows our shipment schedules, our security protocols, our vulnerabilities.
I don’t really blame Alessandro for suspecting me. Not of initiating this attack on the Dante business, as that started before I came home. But I can’t help but wonder if whoever sent the note wasn’t trying to save the Dantes but instead was looking to recruit someone with a grudge to bring them down. Or perhaps to replace Alessandro.
Or worse, what if that person is setting me up to take the fall when everything collapses?
10
KATERINA
I sit at my kitchen table, tracing the rim of my coffee mug as dawn creeps through the curtains.
Sleep abandoned me hours ago, my thoughts too tangled with memories of Luca's touch, his words, his persistence.
Three times this week, he's appeared at my door. Flowers the first day. A gentle request to meet Enzo the second.
Yesterday, a demand that made my blood boil, who was I to keep a man from his son?
As if he hadn't kept himself away for seven years.
I press my fingers to my temples, fighting the headache brewing there. The problem isn't just Luca's determination.
It's how easily I still respond to him.
One look from those steel-gray eyes and I'm twenty again, breathless and hopeful, believing his promises.
"You'll never lose me," he'd whispered once, lips against my neck, hands holding me like I was something precious.
Lies. All of it.
I sip my coffee, now cold and bitter, a bit like my life.
Through the window, I catch sight of Enzo in the garden, constructing some elaborate game with sticks.
His dark hair falls across his forehead exactly like his father's.
"He deserves to know his father," Luca had argued yesterday, standing too close, smelling too good. "And I deserve to know my son."
The audacity of it makes me want to scream. What about what I deserve?
What about the nights I spent alone, pregnant and terrified?
What about the explanations I've crafted over the years when Enzo, or anyone else, asks about his father?
Yet watching my boy now, I wonder if I’m selfish.
If my fear of being hurt again, my desire to punish Luca, is hurting my child instead.
