“You made yourself bait.”
“I needed to know if he was still circling you.”
Dante’s anger wrestled with something closer to reluctant respect. “That was reckless.”
“It worked.”
“It nearly got you killed tonight.”
“And now you know your son is breathing.”
Lightning cracked over the hill. Dante looked toward the mausoleum one more time. “Stay behind me.”
She nodded, and they walked into the cemetery together.
The mausoleum had been built by Dante’s grandfather, a man who believed a family should flaunt its wealth even in death. White columns framed a bronze door flanked by stone lions. The door stood open, candlelight flickering across generations of carved names.
Milo sat on top of Elena’s coffin, clutching the same red toy car from the photograph. Nico stood behind him. At thirty-four, he wore a rougher copy of Dante’s face — same dark hair, same gray eyes, but where Dante’s features held restraint, Nico’s held years of quiet resentment.
Salvatore stood beside him, a gun leveled at the back of Milo’s small head.
“Brother,” Nico said. “You actually came.”
Dante kept his hands where they could be seen. “Let the boy go.”
“Your boy?” Nico laughed without any warmth in it. “You’ve known him for less than an hour.”
“I’ve known you my whole life. Don’t make me regret every time I stood between you and our father’s fists.”
Nico’s smile disappeared. “You protected me? You humiliated me every time you cleared my debts like I was a child who couldn’t be trusted with money.”
“I paid what you owed.”
“You made sure I lived beneath you.”
“You chose that. I never asked you to.”
Salvatore’s grip tightened on the gun. “Enough.”
Dante turned toward the older man. “My father trusted you with everything.”
“Your father used me,” Salvatore said. “Exactly the way you have.”
“I treated you like family.”
“That was your mistake to make.”
Sienna stepped out from behind Dante. Milo’s whole face changed the second he saw her.
“Nora — Sienna!” His voice cracked.
She fought every instinct telling her to run to him. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”
The boy started to cry. Nico’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Stay still.”
Dante’s voice dropped into something almost inhuman. “Take your hand off my son.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Nico’s face — and then, deliberately, he tightened his grip instead of loosening it.
“You always had everything,” Nico said. “Father’s respect. The organization. Elena.”
“This was about her?”
“She knew exactly what you were, and she chose you anyway.”
“She was my wife.”
“She should have been mine. I met her first. I brought her into this family. The moment you walked into a room, I stopped existing to her.”
“So you murdered her for it?”