Chapter 28 - Alessandro
Emma sits at my right hand like a queen, but she won’t meet my eyes.
Seven days since she swallowed those pills, since I found her bleeding out in our bathroom, and every breath she takes feels borrowed.
The designer armor she wears, sapphire silk that matches the Rosetti family crest, can’t hide how her hands still tremble when she thinks I’m not watching.
The mahogany table stretches between us and the rest of my family, crystal glasses catching candlelight, but all I see is the way she avoids looking at me.
A week since she tried to leave me permanently, and though her body has healed, the distance between us feels insurmountable.
I lied about Tommy, and she will never forgive me for that.
"The northern shipments are proceeding on schedule," Marco says, cutting into his veal with precise movements. "The tech integration from the Hewson patents has streamlined operations by thirty percent."
Emma's fingers tighten imperceptibly on her fork at the mention of the Hewsons.
I reach for her wrist under the table, my thumb finding her pulse point, still too fast, still rabbit-quick like it's been all week.
Her skin burns against mine for half a heartbeat before she pulls away, and fuck, even her rejection makes my cock stir.
My body doesn't understand that she's done with me.
"Impressive numbers," Dante signs, Ana translating smoothly for Valentina and Emma while gently rocking in her chair. Little Antonia is upstairs with a nanny. "The family's position has never been stronger."
Sofia hasn't touched her food. She keeps glancing toward the door, fidgeting with her napkin. "It's amazing," she says suddenly, her voice carrying that sharp edge I've learned to distrust, "how quickly someone can adapt to a life they weren't born for."
The table goes quiet. Emma's chin lifts slightly, the only sign she heard the barb.
"Some people," Sofia continues, twirling her wine glass, "truly belong in this family. Others just… perform the role."
"Sofia," Marco warns, but she's already leaning forward, blue eyes locked on Emma.
"Don't you think, Frances? That belonging is about more than just wearing the right dress?"
Emma sets down her fork deliberately. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the same cold distance she's maintained all week. "I think belonging is earned through loyalty. Through sacrifice. Through choosing to stay when leaving would be easier."
The words land hard. She stays, yes, but only because I've trapped her. Because I lied about Tommy, manipulated her into dependency.
"How philosophical," Sofia says, but there's something nervous in her laugh. "I suppose we'll all find out who truly belongs soon enough."
Before I can demand what she means, the doorbell rings.
Sofia's smile widens. "Perfect timing. I invited someone special tonight."
"What did you do?" Marco's voice could freeze blood, but Sofia's already standing, smoothing her cream silk dress.
"I protected this family," she says, moving toward the dining room entrance. "From a dangerous fraud."
The house feels wrong, too quiet except for our voices. Where are the usual sounds? The guards' footsteps, the kitchen staff cleaning up? My neck prickles with the awareness that's kept me alive this long.
My hand finds my gun before conscious thought, but Emma's fingers close over mine under the table.
The dining room doors open, and Frances Hewson enters like she owns the place.
The real Frances Hewson.
She looks eerily similar to Emma, same height, same build, but there's something harder in her features, a brittleness that comes from too much money and not enough warmth. The resemblance that once fooled everyone now seems like a cruel joke. Her smile is all teeth as her gaze lands on Emma.
"Did you really think," Frances says, voice dripping contempt, "you could replace me with a servant and no one would notice? All these weeks of watching my name worn like a costume by the help."
The room erupts. Dante's on his feet, signing rapidly. Nico's hand goes to his weapon. Marco hasn't moved, but the temperature around him drops ten degrees.
Emma stands slowly, and for the first time all week, she looks directly at me. In her eyes, I see that she understands everything: Sofia has brought Frances here. My own sister orchestrated this.
Sofia's triumph flickers, something's wrong. Frances came alone. Where's her escort?
"A servant," Emma says, and there's something almost amused in her tone. "Yes, I was. I scrubbed floors in houses like this. Learned to be invisible. Learned to survive things that would break someone like you."
"You admitted it!" Sofia cries, triumph and confusion warring in her voice. "You see? She's been lying this entire time! Her identity is completely fake, she's not Frances, she's nobody!"
"Her name is Emma," I say, standing, putting myself partially between my wife and the woman whose name she wore. "Emma Rosetti. And she's more family than you've proven to be tonight, sister."
Sofia's brow furrows, her perfect composure faltering in confusion at my reply. She thought I didn't know.
Frances laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "How touching. The great Alessandro Rosetti, fooled by kitchen help. Wait until the other families hear about this. The Rosettis, taken in by a maid playing dress-up."
"You're right," Emma says, stepping beside me rather than behind. "The truth is exposed. I'm not Frances Hewson. I never wanted to be. Your name was just a yoke your mother forced me to wear."
"You want to know the really funny part?" Frances pulls out her phone, typing quickly. "This isn't even about exposing your fake marriage anymore."
The dining room windows explode inward.
Russians pour through, a full dozen, Bratva tattoos visible on their necks. The Volkov family crest. Nico reacts first, diving to shield Ana, while Luca shoves his pregnant wife Faith under the table.
"What did you do?" Sofia screams at Frances, all her smugness evaporating into horror.
Frances laughs but there's confusion in it now.
A man steps through the shattered window frame with predatory grace.
Younger than expected, perhaps early thirties, with pale eyes that mirror the Moscow winter.
The Volkov family crest gleams on his cufflinks, but it's the controlled violence in his movements that marks him as dangerous.
"The Hewson girl contacted us after she escaped her wedding," he says, his accent barely there, cultivated to blend in. "She thought she was hiring mercenaries for her petty revenge. She never realized she was auditioning for a much older play."
"You promised me safe passage to Moscow," Frances says, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "I help you eliminate both families' leadership, and I disappear with—"
"You disappear, yes," the man says coolly. "Just not to Moscow. But first, you'll serve your purpose. Start with Alessandro. He's the one who humiliated you by marrying a fake."
His pale eyes find Sofia, and something shifts in his expression. Colder. Focused. "Hello, Sofia."
Sofia stumbles backward, her face draining of color. "No… The voice on the phone, you said you were Calabrian. You said you had evidence Emma was a threat to the family."
"Your voice messages were very helpful, little Rosetti.
" His smile is winter frost. "So concerned about your brother's safety.
So eager to believe a Calabrian family would help you expose a 'fraud.
' Did you really think that accent was real?
I've been practicing it since I was fifteen.
Since the night my brother didn't come home. "
"Brother?" Marco's voice cuts through the chaos, understanding beginning to dawn.
The Russian pulls out a photograph, aged and creased.
Young Sofia and a young boy, playing in a garden.
"Mikhail Volkov. He wrote about you in his journal.
'Sofia taught me a new word today. Sofia shared her lunch.
' Childish scribblings of a boy in love.
" His voice never changes tone, which makes it worse.
"Then you told your family about the Russian boy following you around, and Luca Rosetti introduced himself. "
Sofia's knees buckle. "No, that never happened." She shakes her head, confused. "I… I was just a child! I thought—"
"So was Mikhail. Barely eighteen years old." The man's eyes never leave her face.
"You're Alexei Volkov," Marco says, pieces falling into place. "Viktor's youngest son."
"The only son now," Alexei confirms. "Eleven years I've waited.
Eleven years I've studied your family. Your habits.
Your weaknesses. And Sofia…" he steps closer, "Sofia's guilt.
So easy to manipulate. A few phone calls, the right accent, some inside information, and she opened the door herself. Again."
"I didn't know it was you!" Sofia screams, real terror now. "I never would have—"
"Never would have what? Betrayed your family? But you're so good at it. First you led us to that safehouse all those years ago. Now you've invited us to dinner."
Frances still has the gun raised, shaking now, confused by how the situation has shifted. "Are we doing this or not?"
Alexei doesn't even look at her. "By all means. Shoot him. That was always your purpose here."
Frances aims the gun directly at my chest, the barrel wavering but deadly. "For what it's worth," she says, "this was only supposed to be about the money."
I see Emma move in my peripheral vision. See her decision in the set of her shoulders. "No—"
The gunshot cracks through chaos.
But I'm still standing.
Emma isn't.
Emma's body hits the floor with a sound that will haunt me forever. Blood spreads across her white dress, pooling on the mahogany floor beneath her. She took the bullet meant for me, threw herself into its path.
Something cracks in my chest, I actually hear it, like a rib giving way. The control I've maintained for twenty-seven years shatters completely. My hands shake for the first time since I was fourteen, since the night our father died.
"No!" The word tears from my throat as I drop beside her, pressing my hands against the wound in her chest. So much blood. Too much blood. Gunpowder mixes with her jasmine perfume, creating something that will haunt me forever.
Frances stands frozen, gun still raised, shock replacing her earlier triumph. That's all the opening I need. My gun is in my hand and firing before conscious thought. Three shots, center mass. Frances Hewson crumples like paper, her expression staying surprised as death takes her.
The room explodes into violence. Marco and Nico move in perfect synchronization, taking down Russians with brutal efficiency. Dante shields Ana while returning fire.
I can't look away from Emma, but in my peripheral vision I see Sofia moving—silk over steel, her blade finding targets with Rosetti precision, her evening gown not hindering the precise way she handles the blade.
She takes down two Russians with an efficiency that reminds everyone she's a Rosetti, not just decoration, then she drops beside us, trying to help stop Emma's bleeding.
"I didn't know!" Sofia sobs, pressing her silk scarf against the wound alongside my hands. "I thought I was protecting you! I thought—"
"Shut up and help me!" I snarl.
The Russians begin their retreat as more Rosetti soldiers arrive. But Alexei doesn't run. He walks calmly through the chaos to where we kneel in Emma's blood. Sofia looks up at him, mascara streaming down her face, and he reaches out to touch her cheek with one finger.
She flinches, but he captures a strand of her hair, wrapping it around his finger before pulling away.
"Ten years I've waited," he says softly, just for her. "Your debt comes due soon, Sofia. A life for a life. And I always collect what I'm owed."
"Medical!" Marco shouts. "We need medical now!"
Alexei steps back, signaling his men. "This isn't over. The real show hasn't even begun." His eyes find Sofia one last time. "You have something that belongs to me. I'll come to collect it."
Then they're gone, melting into the night as sirens wail in the distance. But all I can focus on is Emma's pale face, her eyes fluttering closed, her breathing too shallow.
"Why?" I whisper, cradling her head in my lap while Sofia keeps pressure on the wound. "Why would you save me after everything I did?"
Her hand finds mine, grip weak but determined. She manages two words before unconsciousness takes her: "My choice."
"Don't you dare leave me, stellina." My voice breaks on her nickname. "Don't you fucking dare."
The blood keeps coming, soaking through everything. Sofia kneels in it, whispering apologies that mean nothing if Emma dies. "I killed her," she repeats. "I brought them here. I thought I was protecting you, and I killed her."
"She's not dead," I snarl, but Emma's eyes have closed. "She's not fucking dead!"
The medical team bursts through the door, but I can't let go. They have to pry her from my arms, and when they do, I see the full extent of the blood loss. The floor looks like a slaughterhouse.
As they work on her, all I can think is that she chose this. After everything, my lies, my manipulations, keeping her brother from her, she still chose to save me.
And somewhere in the night, Alexei Volkov is planning his next move, with Sofia's debt hanging over us all like a blade waiting to fall.
If Emma dies, I'll paint the world red with Volkov blood.
But she has to live. She has to fucking live so I can spend forever making this right.