My feet carry me without asking permission. Down the corridor. Past polished art. Past soft light that’s meant to make luxury feel like peace.
I find him in the private sitting room. Not the study, not the war room, not the places built for violence and paper cuts. This room is quieter. Lower ceilings. Softer chairs. A fire that isn’t lit, because even warmth here is controlled.
Turo is sitting on the couch, sleeves rolled up, collar open. There’s a folder in his hands. Court documents.
My stomach twists. Because no matter how velvet the room looks, it’s still a battleground.
His head lifts the second I step in. He doesn’t speak. He watches my face the way he watches threats, like he’s searching for the moment I break and deciding how to catch me if I do.
I close the door behind me. Softly. The click still lands like a period.
“I need to tell you something.” My voice comes out, too careful. Like I’m bracing for impact.
Turo’s gaze drops to the folder once, then he closes it and sets it on the table with deliberate precision. Then he leans back slightly, hands resting open on his knees.
“I’m listening,” he says.
I stand there, arms folded across my middle like I can hold myself in place.
The room smells faintly of leather and wood polish and something sharper underneath. The reality of him.
I swallow hard.
“I… a while ago,” I begin, and my throat tightens. “When Nico started asking questions.”
Turo’s jaw shifts, just once. The only sign he feels anything.
“What questions?” he asks quietly.
I hate that the answer burns. “About his father.”
Silence. Full of everything we didn’t say for three years.
I stare at the floor for half a second because looking at him feels like stepping into a spotlight. Then I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I Googled you,” I admit.
That gets him. Not surprise—he doesn’t seem capable of it—but something sharp flickers behind his gaze, like he didn’t expect me to say it out loud.
“I searched the Mancini family,” I continue. “I found pictures. Articles. Your name.” My chest clenches as I say it, like it’s dangerous just to speak. “And then I saw your face.”
Turo doesn’t move. But something in the room does. The air shifts. His attention becomes a physical thing.
My voice cracks on the next part. “I realized you weren’t… just a man on a plane.”
His eyes hold mine. Unblinking.
I keep going because stopping means falling apart.
“I realized you were the don. I realized you were Marco’s father.”
The words taste like metal. I watch him absorb it. I watch him take it without flinching. I hate that it makes my chest hurt.
“And I chose not to reach out,” I whisper.
Turo’s breath changes. Just a small, controlled inhale that tells me I struck something deep.
“Why?”
