My heart started pounding. "No."
Matteo ignored me. Again. I was developing a list. A very long list. In Italian, his voice rang clear through the ballroom. Formal. Traditional. The words felt older than the city itself. Older than all of us. Santino's expression disappeared entirely. Every trace of amusement vanished.
The room changed. The air changed. Even the music seemed far away.
My stomach dropped. "You are not doing this."
Nobody listened. Typical.
"I place my loyalty before you."
The Italian sounded beautiful. And terrifying. Because everybody in the room understood what it meant. Matteo lifted his head. Looked directly at Santino. Not afraid. Not hesitant. Certain. My pulse roared in my ears.
"Matteo, don’t."
Nothing.
"I ask for your protection." His voice hardened. "I ask for your name."
Silence. Dead silence. Even the city beyond the windows seemed to disappear. Santino stared down at him. Motionless. Expressionless. Dangerously unreadable.
"Get up."
Matteo didn't move. "I won't."
Jesus Christ. The Ventura stubbornness was becoming a public health crisis. Santino's eyebrow lifted. Slightly. Most grown men wouldn't have dared answer him like that. My sixteen-year-old brother apparently had a death wish.
"Matteo." My voice cracked like a whip. "Get. Up."
"No."
I closed my eyes. Wonderful. Excellent. Fantastic. This was going beautifully. When I opened them again, Matteo was still kneeling. Still staring at Santino. Still refusing to surrender.
"I can't stay with Leo." The words hit the room hard. Harder than I expected. My chest tightened. Santino remained silent. Matteo continued anyway. "I won't. He killed my father."
The ballroom became deathly still. My stomach twisted. Because that wasn't the whole truth. And yet it wasn't entirely a lie either. Leo had saved us. Protected us. Given us a future. But Lorenzo Ventura had still been our father, even though he was an abusive bastard. And grief wasn't logical. Especially not for boys.
"I know what he did." Matteo's voice roughened. "He deserved it."
The confession surprised me. Apparently it surprised Santino too.
"But he was still my father."
Silence. Painful silence. The kind nobody knew how to fix. Matteo swallowed hard. Then looked down at the floor briefly. When he looked back up, his eyes burned. Determined. Fierce. Ventura eyes. Our mother's eyes.
"I don't want to become him." The words landed heavily. "I don't want power for power's sake. I don't crave fear."
His gaze never left Santino. "I want honor."
Something shifted in the room. Subtle. But real. Santino's expression changed. Not softer. Dangerous. "I want to be a made man people can respect."
Matteo's voice steadied. Strong now. Certain. "I want to protect people. I want to keep my morals."
The last word echoed strangely through the ballroom. Morals. In the mafia. Almost laughable. Except Matteo wasn't joking. Not even slightly. He meant every word. The realization hit me unexpectedly hard. Because I wasn't looking at my little brother. I was looking at the man he wanted to become. And for the first time, I understood that Matteo wasn't a child anymore.
The thought terrified me. Santino remained silent for a long time. Studying him. Evaluating him. Judging him. Then finally he spoke. "What makes you think I have morals?"
Matteo didn't hesitate. "You saved my sister from a wedding she didn’t want. Kind of an insane way to do it, but… She seems happier than I’ve ever seen her."
