My youngest brother. The one I’ve kept at arm’s length. The one I’ve assigned to perimeters and gate duty while his older brothers made decisions.
He saw what I missed. And he went to my wife because he didn’t trust me to listen.
Cazzo.
That’s on me. I’ll deal with it later.
Right now, the traitor.
I look at the evidence spread across the table. Every document. Every connection. Every piece of proof that a man I’ve known my entire life has been destroying us from the inside.
“You’re certain.”
“The signatures match. The routing is identical. The call logs confirm the Benedetti connection.” She meets my eyes. “He’s not just a thief, Dante. He’s a traitor.”
“Why?” The question comes out rough. “Why did you do this? You could have stayed out of it. Could have served your time and walked away. No one asked you to hunt down a traitor.”
She’s quiet. Her hands fold in front of her, the way they do when she’s gathering her thoughts.
“Because I refuse to be the worse option.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“Elena was supposed to stand here. Elena was supposed to be your wife.” Her voice is steady, but there’s a wound underneath that’s bleeding. “I’m not her. I can’t be her. But I can be this.” She gestures at the papers spread across the table. “I can protect what’s yours.”
Her chin lifts. “That’s what I have to offer. And I wanted you to know I was worth something.”
Worth something.
She’s standing here with her chin up but braced for a hit.
Dio.
My father arranged a marriage to the wrong sister.
I cross the room. Take her face in my hands. Her skin is warm under my palms, her pulse jumping in her throat.
I don’t ask permission.
I kiss her like she’s the answer to a question I’ve been asking my whole life.
This isn’t the desperate hunger of my desk, papers scattering, both of us breaking. This is me claiming.
My mouth moves over hers with certainty. My hands hold her face like she’s mine and I’m reminding her. No hesitation, no question, no space between what I want and what I take.
She gasps against my lips. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer, and I let her. Let her feel the solid wall of my chest, the strength in my arms, the promise in every press of my mouth to hers.
When I pull back, she’s breathless.
“Dante.”
“You’re mine.” The words come out low. Absolute. “Mia.”
Her eyes are bright. Shining.
I kiss her forehead. Let my lips linger.
Then I step back. The softness in my chest hardens into steel.
