I don't answer. I close the door behind me and walk down the stairs, my shoes echoing like a drumbeat in the empty hall.
Matteo’s compound is a fortress of glass and steel, and today, it feels like a goddamn tomb.
I arrive within the hour, my jaw still set in that frozen line. I head straight for the war room. Matteo, Dante, Enzo, and Luca are already there, gathered around the central table. They look up as I enter, sensing the shift in the atmosphere before I even speak.
Matteo is at the head of the table, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. Always the Don for a reason—he sees the storm before the first drop of rain hits the ground.
"The rat is out," I say, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged over broken glass.
Dante straightens, his hand moving reflexively toward his waist. "Who? One of the drivers? The kitchen staff?"
"Gia," I say.
The name hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud.
The reaction is immediate and volatile. Dante slams his fist into the table, a loudthudthat makes the screens flicker. "I fucking knew it! A De Luca is always a De Luca, Rafael! I told you she was a compromise! We’ve been running operations through a goddamn open window!"
Enzo’s eyes turn into slits. "Where is she? Is she secured? I want a team in that estate now. She has enough Brotherhood data in her head to dismantle our entire northern infrastructure."
"Sit down," Matteo says, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a goddamn mountain.
Dante and Enzo freeze. They look at him, the respect for his authority overriding their rage. Matteo turns his gaze to me. He doesn't look surprised. He looks... disappointed.
"Explain," Matteo commands.
"She confessed this morning," I say, leaning over the table, my good hand splaying across the digital map. I tell them everything—the burner phone, Salvatore's deal with the Irish, the video of her sister. "She sent them falsified intel last night. She swapped the rooms and the codes. If we move now, we don't have a leak—we have a target."
Luca, always the observer, narrows his eyes. "She told you this morning? Why? Why now?"
"Because she couldn't pull the trigger," I mutter. The thought of her sitting on the edge of that bed, offering her life for her sister’s, makes my chest tighten with a jagged, burning resentment.Damn her.Even after she sold us out, she’s still making me feel things I don't want to feel.
Matteo studies me for a long moment, his gaze searching mine. "Do you believe her, Rafe? Do you believe her change of allegiance is genuine, or is this just the next layer of the play? Is she leading us into a different trap?"
I don't hesitate. I don't even have to think about it. I think about the way she looked when she said she loved me—the raw, bleeding honesty of a woman who had already accepted her own death. I think about the way she kissed me, like she was trying to save my soul while she was destroying my life.
"It’s genuine," I say.
"And if it’s not?" Enzo asks, looking to Matteo for permission to push. "If the O'Rourkes are waiting for us at the 'fake' location because she told them we’d be there?"
"Then I’ll be the one to put the bullet in her head myself," I growl, the words tasting like ash and iron. I look at Dante and Enzo, then back to Matteo. "But until then, she’s mine. Any action against her, any detention, any interrogation—it goes through me first. If anyone so much as looks at her without my clearance, I’ll show you exactly why they call me the Butcher. Are we clear?"
The room settles into a tense, heavy silence. They know that tone. They know that look.
Matteo nods slowly, acknowledging my claim. "We're clear, Rafael. She is your responsibility. But the operation belongs to the Brotherhood." He looks down at the map, his mind already moving into tactical mode. "If the data is false, then the O'Rourkes will be concentrating their forces on the west wing of the Villa, thinking they have a back entry code. We canposition our strike teams in the utility corridors and the garden perimeter."
The focus shifts. The betrayal is pushed into the background, replaced by the clinical, cold machinery of war. We spend the afternoon in that room, mapping out the strike. We assign teams—Dante takes the perimeter, Enzo handles the interior sweep, and I take the lead on the interception.
"We hit them when they mobilize," I say, pointing to the northern road on the map. "They think they’re walking into a slaughter. Let’s show them what a real one looks like."
By the time the meeting breaks, my mind is a steel trap of logistics. But as I walk back toward my car, the 'Butcher' mask slips just enough for the man to breathe.
I look down at my bare hand. The skin where my ring used to be feels raw, exposed.
I love you truly.
The words are a ghost in my ear, mocking the fact that I’m currently planning a war based on the word of a liar. I want to go back to the estate. I want to drag her into that dressing room and make her tell me the truth until her voice gives out. I want to feel the heat of her skin and forget that her father is the one who wants me dead.
But the pain of the deception is a constant, sharp needle in my chest. She used my "quiet space" as a weapon. She used the peace I found with her to hide the knife she was holding.
