Besiana
The theater is a battlefield.
The roof is gone.
Rubble and dust rain down like ash, gunfire echoing off stone and broken iron. Spotlights flicker wildly through the smoke, casting shadows.
I step through the side entrance of the ruined theater, feeling as though I’m walking into the underworld.
My gaze finds Domenico, drawn to him like an iron filing to a magnet. He is bleeding from a wound to his side and from his ear, but he is alive, thank God. He is cornered, pinned behind the crumbling remains of a column, two guns trained on him from above.
Rosetti blood stains the floor.
And then there's Adrian. My father. Standing at center stage, calm as ever, like the violence was scripted and he’s just waiting for applause.
Adrian’s eyes find mine, cutting through the smoke and ruin.
He stands unmoved in the chaos, as if he expected me all along, as if this theater of war is nothing more than a predictable act.
I almost hear the gears turning in his mind, and it thrills him.
More blood, more betrayal—it’s the story he always wanted. He shows no shock, no fear.
“You came home,” he calls out with that familiar, unflinching confidence.
“No.” The defiance I’ve hidden for years breaks free, raw and powerful. “I came to end this.”
Dom sees me. Our eyes lock. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t lower his weapon. But more importantly—he doesn’t lift it toward me either.
He’s waiting. Watching. Wondering.
Am I here to finish what my father started?
The air is thick with tension, and I see it written on every face, every crouched figure.
Rosetti and Dushku alike are frozen in place, waiting to see who gets erased.
I’ve always been the obedient daughter, the predictable variable.
No one expects the twist. I’m used to being underestimated. Especially by him.
And now I’m rewriting his script.
I step forward slowly. My boots crunch over shattered tiles and broken chairs. I have an Albanian gun in my hands, plucked from a dead man at my feet, and I raise it. Not fast, not slow, just deliberate. The Albanians tense, weapons twitching toward me.
“What are you doing?” Baba asks, voice low.
“What you taught me,” I say. “Surviving.”
I raise the gun and aim it straight at him.
Dom doesn’t move.
Rafe mutters something low.
The world holds its breath.
“Tell your men to stand down,” I say.
“Think about what you’re doing, vajze,” he says, voice suddenly soft. His voice lowers, almost gentle now, like he thinks he can still coax me into obedience. “These people—they’re not your family.”
“They protected me,” I say.
“They used you.” His voice sharpens, and he takes a careful step forward, one hand out in that familiar, condescending gesture of supposed love. I hold my ground, unmoved. “I raised you,” he says, every word weighted with the chains he put on me years ago. “Fed you. Taught you everything you know.”
“You taught me how to obey,” I snap. “How to disappear. How to lie.”
“And it kept you alive,” he says, sharper now. “Do you think the Rosettis will let you live once they’ve squeezed everything from you? You’re a weapon to them, just like you were to me.”
I say nothing, letting him feel my silent defiance like a slap in the face.
“You point that gun at me,” he says, “and there’s no going back. You stop being my daughter.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Because you stopped being my father a long time ago.”
He stares at me, the realization that he’s losing control hitting him. Cold anger flickers in his eyes, the fury of a man who isn’t used to losing.
“Come with me, Besiana. We leave now. You can fix this. We start again—no more spying. No more blood. You’ll have your family. You’ll be safe.”
“Safe?” I laugh, bitter and raw. “You don’t keep people safe, Baba. You keep them silent.”
He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t have to.
We’ve both seen the results of his silence—the bodies, the blood, the betrayals. He expects me to fall back into line, to bend to his will like I always have. But there’s no coming back from this. I’m done playing his game.
“Call. Them. Off.”
My hand doesn’t shake. My voice doesn’t crack.
Baba blinks, then laughs. Laughs.
“You won’t shoot me, Besiana,” he says.
Does he think this is a bluff? Has he ever seen me bluff?
“Not your heart maybe,” I say. “But your kneecaps? Your shoulder? You taught me to be ruthless, Baba. Don’t be surprised that I learned my lessons.”
Something changes in his eyes—just for a second. Not fear. But realization.
The Rosettis stare at me, waiting for the punchline. Used to watching my every move, thinking they know my loyalties. I feel like I’m watching it with them, rewriting it line by line. "Call them off," I repeat. The words echo in the silence, everyone caught between breaths.
“They won’t listen to you,” he says.
"They’ll listen to you," I counter, pushing it further, the gun rising with the words. My chin is up, my heart pounding, but I hold it all steady. "Or you’ll be the first to fall."
I watch him, watch the pieces move in his mind. It’s such a familiar look, one I’ve seen since I was a child. It always made him seem invincible. But now I see more. I see doubt.
Dom rises slowly behind the debris, still not sure which side I’m on. I don't blame him. But I keep the gun steady, my eyes locked on my father.
Adrian holds my gaze.
“You’d betray your blood?” he asks.
“You already did.”
Silence. It hangs heavy, weighing down on all of us. It presses on my chest. Dust swirls in chaotic patterns. My pulse is a war drum. I watch him, waiting for his next move, my eyes never leaving his face. Come on, Baba. Show me your cards.
Then he speaks.
“Stand down,” Adrian says. His voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “All of you.”
The words echo, bouncing off stone and metal.
For a second, no one moves. His men hesitate, but then his order takes hold.
They obey. One by one, guns lower. Movements slow.
The storm begins to still around us, a sudden and unnatural calm following in its wake.
Rosetti and Dushku alike watch me, watch him, unsure of what comes next.
Dom doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Adrian looks at me with new eyes.
“You’ve become ugly,” he says softly.
“No,” I say. “I’ve finally become real.”
Baba’s men, the Albanians, leave the theater until it is just the Rosettis left. And me.
I turn to Dom. To the only man who looked at me and didn’t see a tool, a weapon, a daughter to barter. But the last thing he said to me was that I was no longer his wife, so I suppose we have no relationship at all.
"Besiana," he says, his voice a ghost of a whisper, almost lost to the settling dust.
Those sharp green eyes study me, searching for an explanation, a justification for my actions. But no words come. Instead, I let my arm drop to my side, the gun feeling heavier with each passing second.
“You’re hurt.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. He moves as if to approach me, but then stops short. His gaze never leaves mine.
“I’ve been worse,” he says with an attempt at a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s an awkward silence between us, filled only by our ragged breaths and the distant echo of retreating footsteps.
An unexpected wave of vulnerability washes over me. Stripped bare of the pretense, the lies, and the deceit, I'm left standing before him as just Besiana.
Without a word, he reaches out and carefully removes the gun from my still-trembling hand. I let go without protest, watching as he places it on a nearby fallen beam. His gaze lingers on the weapon, his fingers tracing the cool metal almost absentmindedly.
“You could’ve killed him,” he states, finally breaking the silence. It’s not a question, more like an observation. He doesn’t look at me as he says it but keeps his focus on the gun.
“I know,” I reply quietly, my fingers curling and uncurling at my sides. I glance down at my hands, stained with dust and ash, the lingering echo of the gun's weight still palpable.
Dom’s gaze turns to me then, studying my face closely. It’s as though he’s seeing me for the first time, trying to make sense of what he thought he knew versus what he now sees standing in front of him. “Why didn’t you?”
A multitude of answers rush forward. I could say that I don't want to become like my father or that I rather want him to live with the knowledge that he's been bested by his own daughter. But instead, I let out a sigh. My eyes meet Dom's, holding his gaze steady.
"Because that's not who I am," I say.
The words are simple, but they hang heavy between us. For the first time in my life, I feel as though I am truly standing on my own two feet, without the burden of my father's expectations or the weight of family loyalty dictating my every move.
Dom nods slowly.
Then he does something that takes me by surprise — he extends a hand towards me. His gesture is not of dominance or possession like it often used to be, but of peace. Friendship.
"I did what I thought was right," I say eventually, my voice just above a whisper.
"I know," he answers, his voice gruff with unspoken emotions.
"I'm sorry," I manage to say, swallowing hard.
It's not enough, nowhere near enough to wipe away the damage done. But it's a start, a step towards the light after weeks spent in the darkness. Years.
He doesn't answer at first, just watching me with an unreadable expression. And then he nods slowly. "We'll figure out the rest later."
Just like that, he dismisses it all — the blood, the betrayal, the heartache. And I fall into his arms.