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“Henry Valentinetti,” Duncan said slowly. Recognition spread across his face. “The boy living with Illyria and Maxim Fedorov.”

Hearing my son’s name spoken aloud felt strangely intimate.

Dangerous. As if something precious had been dragged into the open.

“He is my son.” The words were both a confession and a claim. “Mine and Salvatore’s son.” I looked directly at Uncle Sal. “And his father’s death didn’t make him an O’Malley possession.”

“That boy is our blood.” Uncle Sal’s voice dropped into something dangerous. Not anger. Not yet.

Something older.

Possession.

Family.

Obligation twisted into entitlement.

Tyran’s gaze moved sharply to his best friend. As Uncle Sal’s right hand, he knew better than anyone what the Irish could turn blood and obligation into once both had been spoken aloud.

I saw the shift happen in his eyes—the moment Henry stopped being a child and became something he believed belonged to us. “You left our blood with the Russian who⁠—”

“He is not territory.” The words burst out before he could finish, and I stepped around my mother because I was done hiding behind anyone’s protection. “Henry is not a street corner, a business, or another piece of blood-soaked ground for men to claim.”

Every fear I had carried for years rose with those words.

“He is a little boy.” My voice shook, but I held my ground. “A little boy who is safe because Illyria and Maxim love him.” I pointed toward the file. “And I will not let anyone’s pride destroy the life I gave up everything to protect.”

Uncle Sal recoiled as though I had struck him, and grief finally found its way beneath the anger. “You should have come to me.” He pressed a fist to his chest, the gesture less rage than injury. “I’m your uncle.” His voice thickened. “I would have moved heaven and earth for you.”

For one dangerous moment, I almost believed him. That was the problem. I had never doubted that he loved me. I had doubted what his love would cost.

“You would have started a war.” Tears spilled down my face, but they were not surrender. They were fury. “You would have stormed into New York with an army. Cian would have killed anyone you pointed at. Duncan and Mac would have helped bury the bodies.”

My gaze moved over all of them. “And none of you would have stopped long enough to ask what that war might cost my son.”

Tyran would have stood at Uncle Sal’s right hand and turned his orders into action before anyone stopped to question whether Henry needed to be rescued from the people who loved him.

The accusation landed.

Duncan flinched first. “That’s not fair, Maddie.” Hurt roughened his voice. “You decided we would fail you without giving us the chance to prove otherwise.”

Guilt flickered through me. Not because he was entirely wrong, but because I knew he wasn’t. “I decided Henry would live.” My voice fractured beneath the weight of it. “I didn’t owe any of you the chance to gamble with his life just so you could feel trusted.”

Silence followed—heavy, uneasy, and stripped of certainty.

Then Cian spoke, his anger burned down to something quieter and more painful. “You could’ve come to me alone.” His voice thickened. “I held you when you were sick. Taught you to ride a bike. Sat through every school play, no matter how terrible it was.”

The pain in his expression made him look younger. Less like a soldier and more like the man who had spent half his life protecting me.

“You knew I loved you.”

That hurt most of all, because I had known that he loved me.

“I knew you loved Uncle Sal too.”

The answer wounded him. Giving it wounded me.

“I knew you believed loyalty meant telling him anything that threatened the family.” I swallowed before forcing myself to finish. “I didn’t know whether loving me would be enough to make you lie to him.”