“What do you want?” I ask.
Carlo chuckles again. “We don’t want anything from you,ragazza. We want what you will bring to us.”
He gestures lazily toward the doors behind me, drawing another slow inhale from his cigar as if there’s all the time in the world. I turn just as both doors part again, though this time, it’s without any flourish.
The same guards from earlier march inside in tight formation, boots striking the floor in unison. They surround a single figureat the center, their bodies forming a wall around him as they move forward. When they part, a lone man in casual clothing stands between them and in his arms is a small bundle wrapped tightly in a blanket.
The man shifts his grip, adjusting the weight before reaching up to tug the blanket back. Familiar dark hair is the first thing I see.
“Luca,” I breathe.
I barely register the guards at my sides finally releasing my restraints. The sudden freedom is disorienting, my arms dropping limply for half a second before pain rushes back in sharp waves. My wrists burn as circulation floods to my fingertips, needles of sensation biting hard, but it’s distant and irrelevant.
All I can see is him.
The man lowers Luca to his feet, steadying him just long enough to be sure he won’t fall. The second Luca is free, I run. I cross the space between us in a heartbeat and drop to my knees just as he launches himself at me.
“Mama!” he cries, his voice cracking as his arms wrap tightly around my neck.
I catch him, clutching him to my chest so hard it almost hurts, burying my face in his hair as quiet sobs tear free from me. Relief crashes through me so violently that it’s hard to breathe through.
“I’ve got you. Mama’s here. You’re okay,” I whisper over and over, rocking him instinctively.
He clings to me, afraid I’ll disappear again. His small body shakes while his little fingers dig into my shoulders. I press kisses into his hair, his temple, his cheek, anywhere I can reach.
When I finally lift my head again, Enzo is watching us.
His gaze tracks the way my fingers curl instinctively into the back of Luca’s hair, the protective arc of my body as if I could shield him from harm with willpower alone. I keep my palm pressed firmly between Luca’s shoulders.
“If you think you’re going to get anything out of Dante by doing this, you’re wrong,” I say, my voice steadier than I actually feel.
Enzo lifts a single brow.
It’s such a small gesture, but it makes my stomach drop all the same as if he were to pull a gun out and cock the trigger at me. For a long moment, he says nothing. He just watches us—or rather, watchesme.
There’s that same unsettling curiosity from before in his eyes, something almost fond threaded through it, but now there’s an edge beneath it. He looks at me like I’m foolish for believing what I just said.
But itisthe truth, isn’t it?
Dante will not negotiate with the man who murdered his brother. There are lines even he won’t cross, principles carved deeply enough to outlast both blackmail and bloodshed. Matteo’s death wasn’t just a loss. It is a wound that has never healed. If Enzo were anyone else, anyoneotherthan the man who orchestrated that execution, maybe this would have worked.
Now that I know it’s Enzo behind all of this, the odds have shifted dangerously. Dante’s fury won’t bend like the three of these men think it will. It will burn them where they stand. Which means the chances of Luca and me getting out of this unscathed are worryingly low.
“You’ll help us end this, Elena,” Enzo says at last, his tone deceptively simple.
My stomach twists. “How?”
He considers the question, head tilting slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. “You’ll be the reason Dante leaves that villa and walks through our doors.”
My grip tightens on Luca instinctively, fingers digging into the fabric of his still-damp T-shirt as I pull in a slow breath to steady myself.
“When he does,” Enzo continues, his voice almost gentle now, “the second he steps into this room, he dies.”
Something inside me goes cold.
I don’t know why I ask the next question. The answer won’t change anything. It won’t save Dante or us. And yet curiosity tugs at me all the same, an ugly and insistent need to understand.
Maybe it’s the residue of reading my father’s ledger, of living with unanswered questions for years. Or maybe it’s something darker—a twisted instinct to know the mind of the man who dismantled the very empire he helped build.
