Marco’s head snaps toward her. His mouth twists. “You,” he spits. “You’re the reason he’s looking at him like that.”
Lucia doesn’t move. She keeps her hands visible, empty, held slightly out the way you show a wild animal you won’t strike. “I’m not the reason,” she says quietly. “You are.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I see Marco’s finger tighten on the trigger. I see the micro-tremor in his wrist. I see the sweat on his temple glint in the sun.
I keep my voice calm. “Marco,” I say, and I put something into the word. A reminder of the few good things that existed before the rot took him. “Look at him.”
Marco’s eyes flick down involuntarily to Nico. Nico’s face is wet with tears. His mouth quivers. His hand hovers at his ear like his body is begging for comfort. He doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t fight. He looks like a child trying to survive grown men.
Marco’s expression wavers. For half a second, something human flickers. Then it’s swallowed by fury again, because fury is easier than guilt.
“He was mine,” Marco says. “You took everything. You took her, you took him, you took?—”
“I didn’t take anything,” I say. “You threw it away.”
His eyes flash. The gun digs. Lucia’s breath catches. I know immediately I mis-stepped. Truth is not always the right weaponin a hostage situation. Marco doesn’t want truth. He wants a story where he’s the victim.
I adjust. I slow my approach by a fraction, each step deliberate. Not closing too fast. Not giving him reason to fire. Not looking at the gun, looking at his eyes. Men like Marco want to be seen. Even when they’re monsters, they want recognition.
“Marco,” I say. “This isn’t about Nico.”
His laugh is hysterical. “It’s about him! It’s about him being here! It’s about you parading him like your heir.”
“It was never about him,” I say again, holding Marco’s gaze. “You don’t want to hurt him.”
Marco’s face contorts. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“Nico,” I say gently, without taking my eyes off Marco. “Look at me.”
Nico’s gaze shifts fully to mine. His small face scrunches. His ear touching stops, as if he’s trying to obey, to be brave.
I force my voice to soften just enough to reach him. “You’re doing good,” I tell him. “Stay still. Breathe slow.”
His lower lip trembles. He nods once. My chest aches. Lucia makes a sound. Small, involuntary, like her soul is trying to crawl out of her body.
I don’t look at her. If I look at her, I will break.
Marco sees everything. He sees how my attention splits between the gun and the child. He sees the way my hands remain open but my shoulders are coiled. He grins suddenly, sharp and ugly.
“Look at you,” he says, almost gleeful. “The don. So controlled. So calm. But it’s different when it’sthiskid, isn’t it?”
His breath is ragged. His eyes are bright. He’s enjoying this.
That realization is a blade sliding under my ribs. Because Marco isn’t just desperate. He’s vindictive. He wants me to feel what he feels. Powerless, humiliated, irrelevant. He wants to drag me down into his panic and drown me in it.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Marco says quickly, as if reading my thoughts, as if pretending mercy makes him less monstrous. “Not unless you make me.”
Lucia’s voice is whisper-thin. “Marco, please.”
Marco ignores her. His focus is on me. “Tell them to back off,” he demands. “Tell your dogs to put their guns down.”
My men are frozen in the periphery, weapons drawn but not aimed. Discipline holding on by a thread. I don’t turn my head, but I feel Matteo’s presence at my flank. I feel Luca behind me, rigid.
I speak without looking away from Marco. “Lower weapons.”
My men obey. Marco’s eyes dart across them, satisfied, then back to me.
“Good,” he says, breathless. “Good. Now you’re going to listen.”
