CHAPTER 54
NERO ZANTHOS
“Almost twenty years thinking you were adopted,” Atlas mutters, gripping his coffee mug hard. “Your mother is a fucking predator.”
He finishes the sentence and suddenly everyone in the room is staring at him.
Atlas doesn’t swear. Ever. And he would never use that word about a woman—even if she truly deserved it—but he doesn’t seem to realize he said it out loud. His gaze is unfocused, lost in the same place his thoughts are.
“She’s not my mother,” I reply calmly. “My mother died the day I was born.”
“Certifiable,” Drako declares. “One of those disorders where parents fall in love with their kids. That woman was obsessed with you.” He shakes his head, scrubbing his face like he’s trying to erase a memory.
“I told you she was jailbait crazy. She always had that soap-opera villain vibe. She reminded me of the orphanage witch. She despised us, Nero.”
“We always knew your dad was a spineless coward,” Apollo cuts in, “but I didn’t know he was a professional one. How did he look at you every day without telling you he was your father? I don’t get it.”
“He didn’t look at me,” I say—and suddenly it clicks. “That’s how he managed. He gave me everything money could buy and hid as best he could.”
Images flash through my mind, fragments of our entire life together. “At least he had the decency to be ashamed.”
“I never thought Nina cheated on you,” Apollo says quietly. Drako’s attention snaps to him; Atlas is still lost in his head, like he’s doing math.
“Me neither,” Drako adds. “I figured she ran off with the guy just to get back at you for humiliating her. Honestly, I thought it was deserved.” He shrugs, unrepentant.
“Thanks,” I say, letting out a humorless laugh. “I need to find Nina and my son. I’m going to lose my mind knowing all this and not being able to do anything.”
I rake my hands through my hair, focused on the only thing that matters in this entire mess—my woman and my son, whom I don’t even feel entitled to call that.
Tears I haven’t felt in years spill freely, dotting the smooth surface of the kitchen table where I’m sitting. Whether it’s because I feel safe or because I’m desperate, a sobbing, convulsive cry breaks loose.
None of them move. None of them react. They just watch me.
Drako is sitting on the table beside me. Apollo stands leaning against the counter. Atlas finally seems to have come back from wherever he disappeared to, watching me from the armchair in the living room.
I don’t try to stop crying. I don’t even want to. It’s both suffocating and freeing.
I was wrong all this time about the only person I loved. The only one who mattered. And even wrecked inside—by the violence of the truth and by everything I did to her—I smile. Because being wrong is everything I ever wanted.
Atlas stands with purpose and walks toward me. There’s something in his eyes that puts me on alert, and I get up too.
“I know where Nina is,” he says.
The words land like a challenge, not a gift.
“Where?” I ask, feeding off the dark satisfaction in his gaze, hope swelling in my chest at the same speed as suspicion.
“Pienza, Italy,” he answers, cold and economical.
It’s the same look he used to give when he advised us to do something, one of us ignored him, and everything went to hell. He never cared if he went down too—as long as he was right.
And with the absolute certainty that I’ll regret it instantly, I ask:
“How do you know that, Atlas?”
I articulate each syllable slowly, carefully, tension spiraling around us. Apollo and Drako step closer, sensing the shift.
“Five years ago,” he says, “I helped her disappear.”
I don’t even hear myself move.
The next thing I register is his jaw crashing into my clenched fist at an unstoppable speed. I don’t know where the strength comes from—before I realize it, I hit him again. And again.
It’s like I’m watching it from outside my body. Detached. The only sounds I hear are the dull, dry impacts of fist against bone.
I stumble back, shaking. Part of me wants to kill my brother—and then I realize the other part wants it too. My mind lags behind the murderous instinct my body rushed to obey.
Apollo steps between us when I go for him again. I miss by inches.
“That’s enough, Nero. You can hit him again later. Let him finish the story—I’m curious,” Apollo says.
Drako looks from me to Atlas, who stands there resigned, carefully testing his jaw with small movements. He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t say a word. Drako, on the other hand, won’t shut up.
“I think he can take a bit more. Come on, Nero—two more and then we hear the rest,” the youngest provokes.
The twins glare at him. I keep my focus on Atlas, shoving past Apollo and grabbing Atlas by the shirt. His twin ends up stuck between us.
Drako plops into the armchair like this is harmless entertainment—just like when we were kids. Apollo judges him silently.
“Oh, for God’s sake. What drama. Nero wants to punch him, Atlas wants to be punched.
I want to watch,” Drako shrugs at Apollo’s look.
“If Atlas wanted to defend himself, Nero wouldn’t have laid a finger on him.
Or do I need to remind everyone he’s a black belt in jiu-jitsu and hasn’t lost a competition since he was twenty-three? ”
Apollo turns his head, remembering. That detail had slipped past me too. If Atlas wanted to, he could seriously hurt me just by reacting—but he didn’t. He didn’t even try. He took it willingly.
Pain has never been a problem for him. I should have remembered that.
I clench my fists, forcing myself back under control, breathing, dragging my mind to what actually matters. I step back, trembling—not from anxiety, but from rage.
Apollo shifts aside, testing me. I don’t advance. He drops his guard. Atlas squeezes his shoulder in silent thanks.
“Don’t think I defended you because I care,” Apollo snaps, brushing Atlas’s hand off.
“Then why did you?” Drako asks, half-interested, eyes still glued to his phone.
“I’ve been the hotter twin for too long to let this ugly bastard steal my spot. Imagine my perfect face with a scar. Women would lose their minds.”
I close my eyes, incredulous that they can joke at a time like this. But we’re adults. And I know better.
Drako reads rooms fast and makes quick decisions. He’s hard to shock. In his mind, if Atlas wasn’t going to kill me—and that’s a certainty—there was no reason to burn calories stopping it, beyond enjoying the show.
Apollo is different. He was scared for his brother. He always is—even when the danger is harmless. Apollo would jump out of a plane without blinking, but he holds his breath if Atlas trips on the second stair.
Atlas watches me in silence, waiting for my real reaction—not the first one, fueled by impulse.
These three men are my friends. My brothers. We’ve fought and made up our entire lives. This won’t be different.
Again, my body moves before my mind does and I pull Atlas into a hug. He accepts it and says:
“I’m not apologizing. I don’t regret it. Nina needed help. I wouldn’t do anything differently.”
“Thank you,” I say—how I should have said it from the start. “Thank you, my brother.”
Only then does Atlas hug me back, still stiff.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he adds. “I did it for Kael.”
“Kael?” I repeat, needing the answer and fearing it at the same time.
“Your son. Nina had a boy. And it’s long past time you met him.”
I don’t know if seconds pass, or minutes, or hours—or eras. Time fractures. The world shifts.
I whisper prayers to saints I don’t even know and say thank you.
“So—shall we?” Drako breaks the spell, holding up his phone. “Four tickets to Pienza. We land today if you can stop rehearsing the next Mexican soap opera and move your asses. Zero points for drama, by the way. Terrible.”