Chapter Twenty-One
Sabrina
“Sergei Volkov is getting too comfortable,” Rafael says, his tone even but firm. “We've let him move unchecked for long enough.”
Andreas leans back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable. “He's been careful. Quiet. That's what has made him harder to track.”
“Careful doesn't mean untouchable,” Theo adds, his voice calm but edged. “It means he knows exactly what he's doing.”
Sebastian finally looks up. “And that makes him more dangerous.”
Sean exhales slowly, his fingers tapping once against the table before going still. “He's already testing limits. Pushing boundaries to see what he can get away with.”
“He needs to be dealt with immediately,” Rafael says. “Before this turns into something bigger.”
My grip tightens slightly around my fork.
Sergei Volkov.
The name alone is enough to drag something cold through my chest, but it isn't him my mind settles on.
It's his father, Ivan. The former Russian Don.
A man who didn't just lead; he entertained himself with pain, with breaking people down until there was nothing left of them except something useful to him. He didn't build loyalty.
He built weapons.
I know that better than anyone at this table ever will.
The memory lingers longer than I want it to before I force it back down.
“We need information,” Andreas says. “Something solid. Not assumptions.”
“There's only one person who's been close enough to him recently,” Sebastian adds. “Close enough to know how he's moving.”
“Morana,” Theo says.
“She's the only one who's managed to stay inside that world without being seen,” Rafael continues. “If anyone knows what Sergei is planning, it's her.”
“And we don't have a way to contact her,” Andreas finishes.
I keep my focus on my plate, my movements steady and controlled, pretending none of this has anything to do with me.
Sean speaks into the silence.
“I can get in contact with her.”
Every head turns towards him.
Rafael's gaze sharpens. “How?”
Sean leans back just enough to look relaxed, but there's nothing casual about him.
“We're... acquaintances,” he says.
Andreas watches him for a moment. “Since when?”
Sean shrugs lightly. “Long enough.”
The tension lingers, and although I don't look up, I feel it. For a second, Sean's gaze flicks towards me before disappearing again.
The conversation eventually shifts, easing into questions about school, training and how everyone is settling in.
Eleanor turns her attention towards me. “Have you started training yet?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I'm supposed to start tomorrow.”
She nods, but doesn't push further.
That's when Elias speaks.
He's been quiet for most of the night, but his attention has been there the entire time, watching and calculating. Now it settles directly on Dario and me.
“You grew up in orphanages, didn't you?”
I don't react immediately. I simply look at him.
“How is that a problem?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
He leans back slightly. “It's not a problem. I'm just wondering. It must have been difficult. Feeling unwanted. Moving from place to place. Knowing no one really wanted you, just the money that came with keeping you.”
The air around the table shifts.
“Do you have trust issues?” he adds almost casually.
I tilt my head. “If I had trust issues, I wouldn't be sitting at this table listening to you speak.”
A few people shift, but Elias doesn't stop.
“It must have been strange,” he continues, his eyes fixed on me. “Watching other kids get chosen. Watching families pick someone else. That has to leave a mark on a person.”
I set my fork down.
“Are you done?”
He smiles slightly. “Just observing.”
His attention moves to Dario, who is sitting beside me, completely unaware of where the conversation is heading. His legs swing beneath the table as he hums quietly to himself, playing with a butter knife like it's some kind of sword.
Elias studies him.
“That kid. Where did the Morettis pick him up from? A stray? A charity project?”
Dario's shoulders tense. His humming stops, and his little fingers pause around the knife.
It's subtle, but I notice it immediately.
“No DNA match to the Moretti name,” Elias continues. “No real connection. Just a random kid living in a house, acting like he belongs there.”
He tilts his head towards Dario.
“Do you even know where your real family is?”
My hand moves instinctively towards the waist of my jeans, where my gun should have been. I'd had to leave it in my room because it would've been too noticeable.
“Do you call him ‘Dad’? Or are you still figuring out which fork to use?”
For a moment, I imagine Dario snapping back at the fork comment. It's so like him.
But right now, he's completely still, as though something inside him has shut down.
His small hand finds mine beneath the table, his fingers curling tightly around it.
I immediately wrap my fingers around his, brushing my thumb gently over his knuckles and grounding him without saying a word.
I lean down slightly, keeping my voice soft.
“Go upstairs,” I whisper. “Put your headphones on and play with your toys, okay?”
He looks up at me, his brown eyes glossy with unshed tears.
“Did I... do something wrong?”
“No, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong. I just want you to have fun, okay?”
He nods quietly and slides from his chair. His footsteps fade as he disappears around the corner.
The moment he's gone, everything inside me snaps.
“I want you to think very carefully about what you just said,” I tell Elias, my voice low.
He leans back slightly. “It was a joke. That kid needs to learn how to take one.”
I slowly stand.
“He has a name,” I say, my voice sharper now. “And it's Dario, so God help me use it.”
“What is wrong with you? How fucked up are you to go after a four-year-old?” I demand, stepping forward. “You've had a family your whole life. Parents who clothed you, fed you, loved you and protected you. He didn't get any of that. He got nothing. Not even a name that meant anything.”
My voice tightens.
“His birth givers didn't want him. They looked at him and decided he was a mistake. That's what they were going to call him.”
I can feel every set of eyes on me, but I don't stop.
“It was me who fed him. Me who raised him. Me who gave him his name, because no child deserves to start life like that.”
I take another step towards Elias.
“I chose Dario because the moment I saw him, I knew it fit. And despite everything he's been through, he still smiles. He still laughs. He's four years old, and you think this is a damn joke?”
My voice breaks slightly at the edge, but I push through it.
“And you're sitting here questioning his place in this family?”
I shake my head.
“He knows exactly where he belongs. With me. With us. Blood doesn't make a family. Love does. Loyalty does. The people who show up, who stay, who protect you even when it costs them everything – that's family.”
Elias opens his mouth again, but Valeria cuts in immediately.
“Shut up, Elias.”
It isn't enough to calm the storm inside me.
I walk around the table. Before anyone can react, I grab him and slam him back against the table, pinning him down hard enough that everything on it rattles.
“You don't know anything about what I've done to keep him safe,” I say, my voice low and shaking with something far more dangerous than anger. “Things you wouldn't be able to stomach if I spelled them out for you.”
My grip tightens slightly.
“I've done things that follow me when I close my eyes at night. Things that don't go away. Things that should have broken me.”
I pause, forcing myself to breathe.
“But I'd do every single one again if it meant he stayed safe. If it meant he stayed happy. If it meant he never had to understand how ugly this world really is.”
My voice drops lower.
“That's love. Real love. And you don't get to sneer at it. Not while I'm still breathing.”
I lean closer.
“Because if you ever speak about him like that again, I will make you regret it in ways you won't come back from.”
For a second, everything is still.
Then I force his face towards me and, before anyone can stop me, I punch him.
The sound cuts through the room.
I turn and walk out.
My steps slow when I reach the hallway, and I stop just out of view of the dining room doors. I'm close enough to hear everything, but far enough that no one inside can see me.
Rafael's voice carries through first.
He doesn't raise his voice, but the room stills anyway.
“Dario was always meant to be a Moretti,” he says firmly. “And he belongs here with us.”
Bianca doesn't hesitate.
“He is our son in every way that matters. He belongs here, and that was never open for discussion.”
Her voice is steady and final, as though there was never anything to question.
Rafael continues, his tone controlled but edged.
“Who exactly do you think you are to question a decision we made?”
A pause follows.
“This family made that decision,” Rafael finishes, calmer now but final in a way that closes every door in the room, “and it stands.”
I walk away from it all and push open the door to my room quietly.
Dario is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, his headphones on. The ones I bought him. The ones I gave him so he wouldn't hear arguments he was never meant to be part of.
His toys are scattered around him, forgotten. Normally he'd be playing, building something or talking to himself as he made up stories, but now he's curled in on himself, knees tucked to his chest, staring at nothing.
He looks small. Too small.
I close the door behind me and walk over before sitting beside him. He doesn't react at first, still lost in whatever silence he's chosen to disappear into.
I nudge him gently.
“Hey... are you okay?”
He nods automatically without looking at me.
I wait a second before trying again, softer this time.
“Dario.”
This time, he turns his head slightly.
His voice comes out barely above a whisper.
“I didn't mean to be bad. I didn't mean to cause trouble for you.”
Something in my chest breaks so fast it almost steals my breath.
A tear slips before I can stop it, quick and silent as it trails down my cheek. I'd rather take a bullet than hear him say that about himself.
I shake my head immediately and reach for him.
“No. You weren't bad. You didn't do anything wrong. Elias was being cruel. He was being mean for no reason.”
He watches me for a moment, as though he's trying to decide whether he believes me.
Then, quieter, he asks, “Do you think I'm a mistake?”
The question rips the air straight out of my lungs.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead gently against his.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
He does.
“No, Dario. You are not a mistake.”
My voice tightens slightly as I hold his gaze.
“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
His eyes flicker, confused, still searching my face as though he's trying to understand how that could possibly be true.
“When I first saw you,” I continue, “when you were just a tiny baby... you gave me a reason to be here. A reason to stay. A reason to be someone you could need.”
My fingers brush lightly against his cheek.
“You came into my life at the exact moment I needed you.”
His brow furrows slightly.
“How?”
I pause, then gently take his hand and guide it towards my wrist.
The number 13 is tattooed there.
He's seen it before. Asked about it before. I've always given him small answers, never the full one.
“Thirteen,” I say quietly. “Thirteen days after you were born, I got this.”
His eyes remain fixed on the tattoo.
“It's your birthday too,” I continue softly. “The day I realised I finally had a reason to stay.”
Something in his expression shifts, quieter now and more focused.
I swallow.
“Every time I feel low, every time things get too heavy, I look at it and remember you exist. That you're here. That you're mine to look after.”
His fingers trace the number lightly.
“I wasn't okay back then,” I admit, my voice barely steady now. “I did something I'm not proud of.”
I don't say the word.
“I wasn't supposed to be here,” I continue. “But you... you kept me here. You still do.”
Dario stares at me, quiet now.
“So yeah,” I whisper, forcing a small smile through it, “you didn't just come into my life. You saved it.”
He blinks at me, as though he's trying to understand something too big for him to hold.
Then he shifts slightly, like he's deciding something important.
“I wasn't a tiny baby though,” he says seriously. “I was a big baby.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Of course he says that.
I shake my head, wiping my cheek quickly.
“You were a tiny baby first,” I tell him, giving him a look. “Then you got big.”
He huffs like he's offended by the truth.
“No I wasn't.”
“Yes, you were.”
He pauses, then decides to move on like he's won anyway.
“What about the people who gave birth to me?”
I don't answer immediately. The question deserves the truth, but not yet.
I let out a slow breath before reaching over to smooth a hand through his hair.
“You're too young for that story,” I say gently. “When you're older, I'll tell you everything. I promise.”
He frowns, clearly unsatisfied with that answer.
“But for now,” I continue, brushing his hair back from his forehead, “they don't matter. Because you have me. You have Rafael. Bianca. And seven very annoying, very loud people who would burn the world down before letting anything happen to you.”
That seems to sit better with him.
His arms suddenly wrap around my neck, tight and warm, holding onto me like he never wants to let go.
“I love you,” he says quietly. Then, after a small pause, “And I'm happy you're here.”
The words hit harder than he realises.
My hands tighten around him instinctively, holding him just as close.
“I love you more,” I whisper back.
He pulls away slightly, his eyes narrowing like he's thinking hard about something important.
“Because you love me more...” he starts carefully, “can you buy me a sword?”
A laugh bursts out of me again.
“No.”
His face drops instantly.
I sigh, still smiling at him.
“Nice try.”
He brightens immediately.
“When I'm older, will you teach me how to use a gun instead?”
I raise a brow at him.
“...That's not better.”
He shrugs.
“It is for me.”
I shake my head, still holding him close.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I already know.”