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“Why did you want it?”

He slams his hands onto the desk, startling me with the jarring movement. My implants ring, and I fight off the sharp pain.

“Don’t play dumb, bimba,” he growls. “The innocent act was wonderful for outsiders, but you’re a Bruno. I know there is a mind behind that pretty face. I know you found it.”

I didn’t find shit, but I’m not admitting that to him.

Instead, I do the one thing he’s right about—I use my brain and my coyness.

“And?” I look up at him, my bright gaze meeting his furious one. “What’s your point?”

“Where did you put it?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I school my features. The same technique I use when Freddie gets too forward, or a guard gets too curious. The haunting look deters everyone, unsure if I’ll scream or stab, and they’d rather not deal with it.

“Put what?”

“I swear on everything holy, bimba, if you don’t tell me⁠—”

“Threatening me will never make me talk,” I reply calmly. “You forget whose blood I have running in my veins.”

“Now, you call on the Bruno namesake?” He snorts. “You don’t deserve the title.”

“No,” I say, signing. “I’m referring to Carina Lutz, the mother who raised me when the rest of you ignored me. She didn’t back down, and neither will I.”

Roman stands, jaw cracking. He’s a man possessed, and I warily watch his movements. His energy is dangerous, chaotic, and I ready for a strike.

“You want to know why Mama is dead?” He tilts his head, staring Ello down. “You call on her surname as if it’ll imbue you, but really, it’s only a sinner’s name. Much like you. Fitting.”

Ello remains silent, but something flashes in his eyes—hurt.

Swallowing, I nod to myself. The pieces click into place. His devotion. His loyalty. How comfortable I’ve always felt with him—never Papa. Always, him.

“It was you. You were the one my mother loved.”

“Poetic, no?” Roman throws the chest, letting it crash to the floor. All her notes—their notes—fall to the ground. That hurts worse than any of this. The casual disregard for her life. “Our mother loved a guard. Gave her life for him.”

As angry as Roman is, there’s a current of grief for it. Carina didn’t care for him nor Julian, but she was still their mother. He mourns her loss.

It doesn’t endear him, but shows him as unstable. Unpredictable.

Licking my lips, I turn toward Ello and sign, “You wrote all those notes.”

He exhales and nods. A quiet admission.

“Did you love my mother?”

His hands are trapped, so he says, “With every fiber of my being. Since we were children.”

He said he watched her dance at the studio and learned to sign from the older woman who operated the building. He was her security detail as she grew in popularity.

They weren’t having an affair—they were in love from the start. And my father stole her.

“Who taught you to sign?” I ask, hands shaking.

“Fran Molinaro,” he whispers, like a confession.

Because it is.