Every word is a hammer blow, designed to make me reconsider. To make me afraid. To remind me of everything I will be giving up.
"I know that too."
"And you are still walking away."
Now I do turn, looking back at him over my shoulder. He is standing in the middle of his office, backlit by the window, and for the first time in my life he looks old. Small.
I think about Rosalina. About the way she looks at me like I hung the moon. About Gabriel's steady presence and Luca's wild loyalty. About the baby growing inside my wife's body and the life we are building together—messy and imperfect and so much better than the sterile empire my father is offering.
About mornings making breakfast and evenings playing video games and the simple, extraordinary gift of being loved for who I am rather than what I can do for someone else.
About choosing light over legacy.
"Yes," I say simply. "I am still walking away."
I open the door and step through it, and it feels like stepping off a cliff. Like the ground disappearing beneath my feet. Like flying and falling at the same time.
"Dante."
His voice stops me in the doorway, and I turn back one more time, giving him one final chance to say something that might change this. One final opportunity to be my father instead of the Don.
Giovanni is still standing in the middle of his office, but his shoulders have sagged, his hands hanging loose at his sides. He looks older than I have ever seen him, the anger drained from his face and replaced with something I cannot quite name. Regret, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he is capable of feeling.
"You will fail," he says quietly, and there is something almost sad in his voice now. Almost vulnerable. "Without the organization, without the structure and support, you will fail. And when you do—when that girl leaves you or reality sets in or you realize you made a mistake—do not come crawling back expecting me to fix it."
For a moment—just a heartbeat—I consider telling him he is wrong. Consider defending Rosalina against his dismissiveness. Consider trying one more time to make him understand.
But I am done trying to make Giovanni Salvatore understand anything.
"I won’t fail," I tell him, and I believe it with every fiber of my being, with every cell in my body. "Because I am not doing this alone. And that is something you never understood, Papa. Power is not about standing alone at the top, isolated and untouchable. It is about building something strong enough to hold all of us. It is about creating something worth protecting instead of something that requires constant defense."
I hold his gaze for one more second, memorizing his face—the hard lines, the cold eyes, the mask he wears like armor.
Then I walk out before he can respond, closing the door on my father's office and the life I was supposed to lead.
The walk through the compound feels endless. Every step echoes. Guards watch me pass, their expressions neutral, but I can feel them calculating loyalties.
I make it to the foyer before my legs threaten to give out. I stop, bracing one hand against the wall. The marble is cool under my palm, solid and grounding.
I just walked away from everything. The name, the power, the empire. The future I was raised for.
And all I feel islight.
"Dante."
I turn to see my mother rising from the bench beneath my grandfather's portrait. Of course she has been waiting.
"Mama."
She crosses to me, her hands framing my face. "You look lighter, caro."
"I feel lighter."
"Good." She smiles, soft and sad and proud. "You were never meant for this life. You were meant for something better."
"He disowned me. I am no longer his heir."
"I know." Her smile does not waver. "And I am proud of you for it."
