Chapter Thirty Four
Mario
For three days, Victoria has slept in my bed.
Not the guest suite. Never again.
Where I can feel it the moment before she opens her eyes. Where she can wake from a nightmare, find me there, and fall back asleep curled against me.
The last few days have been different from the ones before them in every single way.
Before, there were locked doors between us. Not physical ones. Victoria had been in my office, in my conference room, at my table, in my bed, but she had kept pieces of herself hidden behind professional restraint and sharp intelligence and the kind of caution I understood too well to resent.
Now, there is very little she does not ask.
And very little I do not answer.
Full transparency, she called it, after sitting across from me at breakfast with dark circles beneath her eyes, a piece of toast in her hand, and my sons pretending with insulting failure not to watch every bite she took.
Full transparency.
As if such a thing is simple.
As if my life is not built on closed mouths, hidden rooms, carefully separated ledgers, and truths that survive only because they are shared by as few people as possible.
But for Victoria, I have tried.
No. That is not true.
For Victoria, I have done it.
When she asks about my father, I answer.
When she asks about Naples, I answer.
When she asks how many people follow her when she leaves the house, I answer.
When she asks if she will ever be alone again, I tell her yes… once the home has been secured and inspected and she's behind locked doors.
She'd not like that answer, but she knows it's just a part of being with me now.
And she has done the same with me.
She tells me of her fears, her guilt, her anger. The way the thought of being watched in her apartment still makes her skin crawl beneath the careful composure she wears at work.
Everyone in the family is eager about the baby, especially my sons. But it does something strange to the house.
No one says too much. It is too early, and every person in this family remembers what early hope can cost.
But hope is here anyway, even if silent.
In the way a box of Victoria’s preferred tea has made it into our cabinet, and I know it’s Tomasso’s doing. It’s in the way Matteo has mused out loud while reading about particular names he likes.
The bloodwork confirmed what three little tests already told her.
Victoria is pregnant.
It’s too early for much else. We can’t know whether all will go well. It’s too early for any scans.
For a man like me, it is torture, but I keep it inside for Victoria’s sake.
But it is true.
She is carrying my child.
And she still came into the office today.
Because of course she did.
I hate it. I also know better than to tell her she cannot.
I tried once. She looked at me over her tea and said, very calmly, that being pregnant with a mafia don’s baby after surviving an attempted murder did not mean she was a kept woman.
Tomasso had choked on his coffee.
Matteo had left the room, allegedly to take a call.
I had told her the shortened hours were not optional. She had told me she would consider my position.
Then she came in from 10:00 to 3:00, stayed entirely within my building, took lunch in my office, and had enough security around her to invade a small country.
It was a compromise.
Now she is two floors below me with Benjamin and Ainsley, reviewing files in a conference room that has three of my people outside it, and a private elevator locked to everyone except family and designated staff.
She is as safe as I can make her while still allowing her to feel like a woman and not a prisoner.
It is not enough.
Nothing is enough until Emilio Bellandi is on his knees in front of me.
I set aside the report I have been pretending to read for the last ten minutes and reach for the next file.
My office is quiet. Late afternoon light falls across the dark wood floor. The city moves beyond the glass as if any of it matters.
A knock sounds once, then Diego opens the door without waiting. Tomasso walks in behind him.
I look between my brother and my son.
Both of them look far too serious.
That has my attention before either of them speaks.
“You found him,” I say.
Diego closes the door. “We did,” he says carefully.
I sit back.
Tomasso’s eyes flick briefly to Diego.
My patience thins at once. “Speak.”
Diego slips both hands into his pockets. “It would be better if everyone were here.”
“For what?”
“We’d rather it be said only once,” Tomasso says.
“Everyone should be here within a few minutes,” Diego says. “We called ahead.”
I look between them.
It's one of the rare times that Tomasso says nothing sarcastic.
That is what convinces me.
While we wait, Tomasso moves to the window, arms crossed, gaze on the city. There is a stiffness in his shoulders that reminds me too much of myself at his age and too much of myself now.
Whatever they found, he does not like it.
Lorenzo arrives first, as usual. Ricardo follows thirty seconds later with his phone still in his hand and his expression already annoyed.
“What?” Ricardo asks.
I glance at Diego. “Apparently, we are waiting for a fuller audience.”
Lorenzo’s gaze moves from Diego to Tomasso, then settles on me.
He says nothing. He does not like this either.
Alessio and Edoardo come in together, having been in the building already. Dante arrives behind them, silent, watchful, his eyes moving first to Tomasso, then to his father.
“You got here quickly,” Ricardo comments.
“I took Julia out to lunch,” Dante says shortly. “I dropped her off a few minutes ago.”
“Where is Matteo?” Edoardo asks.
“He is on an errand on the other side of town,” I say.
“Great,” Alessio mutters.
Matteo finally enters with his coat still on, his hair wind-touched, expression composed except for the small crease between his brows.
“Sorry. I wasn’t exactly close,” he says in lieu of an apology.
“I know where you were,” I say. “I sent you there.”
“Then why do you look annoyed?”
“Because these damn people wouldn't get out of my office until you got here.”
“I apologize for not teleporting.”
Tomasso looks over. “Weak excuse.”
Matteo gives him a flat look and takes his place near the wall.
The room quiets, and everyone turns to Diego.
My family. My blood.
I look at Diego. “Now.”
“We found Bellandi,” Diego starts.
Every muscle in the room seems to tighten at once.
“Once his attempt on Victoria at the park failed, he moved fast,” Tomasso says. “Jumped locations multiple times in a few days, burned all his regular contacts. He used a new one he probably thought no one could connect him to.”
“But we did,” Diego says.
“Where?” Ricardo asks.
“Safe house near the edge of the city,” Tomasso says. “Industrial stretch. Not much around it. Easy road access. Cash inside. False papers. He was planning to skip town.”
My hand closes over the arm of my chair.
“And where is he now?”
Tomasso looks at Diego.
Diego looks at me.
I already know.
“Dead,” Tomasso says.
Silence.
I tilt my head slightly. “Dead.”
“Yes.”
“I specifically said I wanted him alive.”
“We are aware,” Diego says.
My voice lowers. “Then explain why he’s dead.”
“We did not make him that way,” Tomasso says.
Lorenzo’s expression hardens. “Then who did?”
“We don’t know for certain,” Diego says. “But we have a strong suspicion.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a small white card. It’s plain and unmarked. No envelope.
He places it on my desk.
For a moment, I do not touch it.
Then I pick it up.
The card is heavy stock. Expensive, but not flashy. The message is written in black ink in neat lettering.
I let him walk once.
Blood for blood.
I stare at the words.
No name.
One isn’t needed.
I know exactly who left it.
A cousin who does not know he is my brother.
A man who had let Bellandi live once and had now answered for Victoria and the child she carries.
For my child.
My fingers tighten around the card.
Across the room, Ricardo goes very still at my reaction.
“What does it say?” Lorenzo asks.
I set the card down where they can all see it.
No one speaks for several seconds.
Then Dante exhales, very quietly.
“This is him, isn’t it? Luca,” he says.
For two years, my father’s deathbed confession has been a knife in my back.
I have known of Luca Conti my whole life, and I never understood the resentment my father harbored for him. I thought it stemmed from Luca rising to a position of power in a way my father never had. I had thought it was jealousy. Pure and simple.
Even behind bars, Luca stayed on top.
It wasn't until my father’s deathbed confession that I learned the truth. That Luca was actually his firstborn son. That I was not.
And with my father on his deathbed, there was no one left to answer for this betrayal. For fifty years of living a lie.
For fifty years of hate and resentment being stirred up for a man I'd never even met.
Only to find that this man is my brother. Well, my half-brother.
And Luca, not knowing he is my brother, has reached across the distance between our families and put Bellandi in the ground for touching what is mine.
I pick up the card again.
Blood for blood.
I never intended to continue whatever grudge my father had against his brother.
I always intended to keep our houses separate and continue living our separate lives.
But now I am holding a card that makes my plan that of a coward.
Because Luca did not owe me this.
Not by any rule my father taught me.
And still, he did it.
Ricardo’s gaze stays fixed on me. “Mario.”
I look up.
He knows me too well. They all do.
I set the card down carefully.
“Find out exactly how the card got here,” I say. “I want to know just how far his reach is.”
Diego nods once.
“And then find out how to send one back.”
The room goes very still.
Lorenzo’s eyes narrow. “What exactly do you intend to say?”
I look at the card again.
At the three words that changed more than Bellandi’s fate.
Blood for blood.
Then I lift my gaze to my family.
“The truth.”