27. Mario
27
MARIO
A ntonio meets us at the DeLuca compound gates himself—a deliberate choice that doesn’t escape my notice. His presence is both warning and reassurance: for twenty-four hours, sanctuary will be honored, but one wrong move and Matteo’s most loyal soldier will remind me exactly why people still fear the DeLuca name.
“You’ll both be searched,” Antonio says without preamble. His eyes linger on Elena’s pregnant belly before meeting my gaze with barely concealed hostility. The look says everything—he hasn’t forgotten how I held Bianca at gunpoint, how I tried to destroy the family he’s protected for over two decades. “Even with sanctuary granted, we’re not stupid.”
The security sweep is thorough but professional. They let Elena keep the small gun in her thigh holster—another calculated message about trust and limits. I catch Antonio’s slight nod of approval at our acceptance of the procedure. Some traditions still matter, even between enemies. Even after everything.
The mansion hasn’t changed since my exile—still all old money and careful power. Diamond-filtered light danced across Italian stone, priceless art hiding security cameras. Every corner holds memories: there’s the study where Giuseppe first taught us to clean guns, the staircase I fell down during one of his “lessons,” the basement door that still makes my hands shake.
Elena’s fingers tremble slightly in mine as we follow Maria through familiar corridors. The housekeeper who once bandaged my wounds after Giuseppe’s rage now looks at me like I’m a stranger—worse, like I’m the piece of shit Giuseppe always said I would become. Her eyes linger on Elena’s obvious pregnancy, something like pity crossing her usually stoic features.
Matteo and Bella wait in the formal dining room, the space deliberately chosen for its lack of personal connection. Pure business, no sentiment allowed to cloud the negotiations. My brother looks exactly like Giuseppe in this light—that same cruel perfection in his features, that same calculated control. Only the protective way he angles himself toward Bella betrays any humanity.
Bella herself is a study in contradictions—still radiant with new motherhood, but with shadows under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights. Her gaze remains fixed on Elena’s stomach, something complicated flickering across her expression.
Recognition? Sympathy? Or just remembering her own recent pregnancy?
Bianca stands slightly behind them, more ice princess than teenage girl now. Her hand drifts toward her concealed weapon when she sees me—muscle memory from that night in the warehouse. My niece’s composure cracks momentarily at the sight of Elena’s bump before ice replaces shock.
The tension in the room could stop hearts. Matteo’s face gives nothing away, but I recognize the slight tension in his jaw—the same tell we both inherited from Giuseppe. That barely contained violence that made the DeLuca name feared across continents.
For a moment, I’m ten years old again, standing in this same room while Giuseppe decided which son deserved punishment. The chandelier still catches light the same way, creating patterns like broken glass on the ceiling. I can almost smell his cigars, feel the weight of his rings against my skin.
But Elena’s grip on my hand anchors me to the present, her bump pressing against my arm as she shifts closer. Reminding me why we’re here, what we’re fighting for.
This isn’t about old wounds or family vendettas anymore.
This is about making sure our daughter never knows the kind of pain this room has witnessed.
“You searched them?” Bianca demands, her hand still hovering near her weapon.
“Thoroughly,” Antonio confirms from his position by the door. His men take up strategic positions around the room—protecting the DeLuca family while enforcing the sanctuary’s terms. I recognize their formation from years of training beside them.
Elena starts to speak, her voice carrying that perfect society polish: “Thank you for?—”
“Save the social niceties,” Bella cuts in, her tone arctic. “We both know you’re excellent at playing roles.”
I raise an eyebrow at the hostility—so different from the understanding tone of her letter to Elena. Something’s changed. Something we missed.
Dinner is excruciating—all careful manners masking deadly intent. Each course arrives with perfect timing, served on the same Wedgwood china Giuseppe used to smash when his temper broke. The conversation is sharp enough to draw blood, served with the same precision as the wine.
“Interesting choice,” Bianca says as Elena declines the offered Bordeaux. “Though I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice playing the perfect mother-to-be with Anthony.”
Elena’s hand tightens on her water glass but her voice stays steady. “I’ve made my choices, B.”
I watch my brother’s face for reactions, seeing the mind working behind his carefully blank expression. He’s evaluating every word, every gesture, just like Giuseppe taught us. Looking for weakness, for advantage, for any sign this sanctuary was a mistake.
The weight of old memories presses down like the chandelier above us—ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.
Elena asks about the twins, and I catch the slight tremor in her voice that others might miss. Something in Bella’s expression softens fractionally—that same warmth I remember from before I destroyed everything.
“They’re fine,” Bella says stiffly. “Growing stronger every day.”
“That’s…that’s good.” Elena’s fingers twist in her napkin. “I’m glad they’re?—”
“They’re perfect,” Bella cuts in, but there’s less ice in her tone now. “Giovanni has Matteo’s eyes.”
I watch Elena struggle not to react to the small bits of information Bella feeds her. The pain on her face is raw, unguarded. She wants desperately to see these babies she helped save, these children who would have been her godchildren in another life.
Matteo must see it too. A muscle jumps along his jawline.
“The twins won’t be joining us,” my brother says unnecessarily, his eyes cold as they track my every movement. “Some bridges can’t be rebuilt.”
“Like the bridge of trust you burned?” Bianca adds, her fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that reminds me too much of Giuseppe’s rings. “Or just the ones that don’t serve your purposes anymore?”
I feel Elena flinch beside me, the words hitting their mark. But beneath the table, her other hand rests protectively over our daughter—never Anthony’s daughter—as if shielding her from these poisoned words.
The crystal glasses catch candlelight like tears we’re all too proud to shed.
After dinner, Bianca storms off, the door slamming behind her with finality. The tension in the room thickens—Bella studying her wine glass with too much intensity, Matteo’s fingers tapping that familiar pattern on the table, Elena’s hands twisting in her lap.
Suddenly, Bella breaks the suffocating silence. “We should walk in the gardens,” she tells Elena. “Get some air.”
Matteo shoots his wife a warning look, but Bella meets his gaze with surprising defiance. I watch their silent communication with interest—something’s shifted in their dynamic since the twins were born. Finally, my brother sighs and gives a single sharp nod.
Elena hesitates beside me, but I see the naked longing on her face—the desperate need to reconnect with her best friend, to bridge the chasm between them. She follows Bella outside like someone walking toward execution.
“There are guards everywhere,” Matteo says casually, watching them through the window. “If she tries anything?—”
I can’t help but scoff. “Yes, because the eight-months-pregnant woman is clearly a physical threat.”
He leads me to the smoking room—Giuseppe’s old sanctuary, now stripped of his presence but not his shadow. Guards line every corner, making me roll my eyes. Always so dramatic, my perfect brother.
“What exactly are you planning with Elena and her baby?” Matteo asks, pouring scotch with deliberate precision. “After all, she’s carrying Anthony Calabrese’s child.”
I’m immediately on edge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The child isn’t yours,” he says bluntly. “I saw how you watched her tonight, how carefully you attended to her needs. You can’t seriously be planning to raise a Calabrese bastard as your own?”
The word hits like a physical blow. Bastard . The same word Giuseppe spat at me for years, the label that marked me as less than Matteo, less than worthy. How fucking dare he use that word about my daughter? About the innocent child I’ve already sworn to protect?
Anger blazes through my veins—the same fury that made me hold Bianca at gunpoint, that drove me to try destroying everything my perfect brother built. For a moment, I imagine throwing the crystal tumbler at his head, watching that carefully controlled expression shatter like glass.
But then I catch the slight tension in Matteo’s posture, the way he’s angled for quick movement. He’s waiting for exactly that reaction—wanting proof that I’m still Giuseppe’s savage second son, still the man he banished over a year ago.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I force myself to breathe through the fury, to push down decades of pain and resentment. “Biology doesn’t matter,” I say, the words surprising us both with their conviction. I see Matteo’s eyebrow lift at my uncharacteristic composure, at this evidence that maybe I’ve grown beyond our father’s poison. “You taught me that with Bianca.”
Matteo’s composure changes to understanding or recognition, I’m not sure which. “Anthony won’t stop claiming what he thinks is his.”
“I know.” I accept the scotch he offers—a peace offering neither of us acknowledges. “That’s why I need your help. Not for me. For them.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with decades of rivalry and pain. Finally, Matteo speaks: “You love her. The way I love Bella.”
“More.” The admission costs nothing now, not when Elena and our daughter’s safety hangs in the balance. Every protective instinct Giuseppe tried to beat out of me rises when I think of them. “Enough to raise another man’s child. To be better than our father’s lessons about blood and power.”
Understanding passes between us—something deeper than blood or loyalty or the games Giuseppe beat into us. I see it in the way Matteo’s shoulders relax slightly, how his grip on the tumbler eases.
Because we both know what it means to choose love over revenge, to protect a child regardless of biology. To break the cycle of violence our father created.
The smoking room holds too many memories—Giuseppe’s cigars, the sting of his rings, lessons taught with blood and broken bones. But now my brother and I stand here as men who survived, who chose different paths than the ones carved into our skin.
“I’ll help,” Matteo says finally, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The glass catches lamplight like memories we’d rather forget. “Not for you. For her. For the baby.”
He pauses, something almost gentle crossing his face—an expression I haven’t seen since we were boys, before Giuseppe’s lessons turned us into weapons. “And because our father would hate it.”
A brittle laugh escapes me as I raise my glass, but something lighter than revenge stirs in my chest. “To spite the old man?”
“To being better than him,” Matteo corrects, and for the first time in decades, we share a real smile. Not the calculated ones Giuseppe taught us to use as weapons, but something genuine. Something that tastes like redemption.