Chapter 40 Isabella #2
“My uncle wouldn’t have used a child’s grief to twist a narrative,” Nico continues.
“He wouldn’t have tried to burn a woman alive because she was no longer useful to him.
He wouldn’t have walked into a hospital and left a note on a man who took a bullet meant for me.
He wouldn’t have betrayed his own sister’s wishes because his ego was louder than his love. ”
“You don’t know what your father wanted,” Domenico says. “You think he told you everything? He died with secrets you couldn’t handle.”
“And one of those secrets is that you killed her father and he didn’t stop you,” Nico says. He nods toward me. “We know. We all know now. And we’ll live with that. We’ll carry it. But we’re not letting you use it as proof that he was you.”
“You think you’re better than me,” Domenico spits.
“I know I am,” Nico says, without heat. “Because I had her in my bed, in my home, in my arms, knowing what you did, and I chose to protect her instead of twist her into a weapon. I chose to clean up your mess without turning it into another excuse to be you.”
He lifts the gun slowly until it’s level with Domenico’s chest. Hands raise all around the warehouse, including Matteo’s and Adriano’s. A stand-off that will only end in bloodshed. My gut clenches in fear. God, this isn’t how I want to die.
“You can blame Papà for your empty hands,” he says. “You can blame us, blame the board, blame the world. But this? This is yours. Every piece of it. The men you killed. The deals you made. The fires you lit. It ends with you.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Domenico says, but there’s a thread of something uncertain in it.
“Why not?” Nico asks.
“Because your mother would—”
“Would be ashamed of you,” Nico cuts in. “Not of me. She loved you, Domenico, but she knew you were weak. Knew how jealous you were that she took your place in our father’s affections.”
“He was my friend first, and she stole him.”
Nico shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “You don’t steal a friendship, Domenico. She made you a real family and yet all you saw was what you thought you were losing.”
Domenico slices his hand through the air. “No. He stopped listening to me once she got her hooks into him.”
Nico turns to Orlov, who is looking uneasy, and I know what Nico is doing now. I see his plan in my mind.
“Is this what you signed up for? A decades-old grudge?”
Orlov looks to his men and then back to Nico. “You got a better offer for me?”
Nico looks at me and I nod. “Maybe. How about you walk away, and I’ll speak to a friend of mine over at city planning, and ensure that the construction deal you bid on goes through?”
“I’m listening,”
Orlov drops his gun, as do his men and I let out a slow breath. This isn’t over, but the odds are better.
“You walk away and leave me and my family alone. You forget our name and you get to make an eight-figure deal which will secure you as head of the Bratva here.”
For a second, the warehouse holds its breath.
Orlov shifts his weight, calculating. His men’s hands hover near their weapons, waiting for the spark.
I feel my own breath catch, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Part of me wants to shout, to make them stop, to drag us all into some courtroom where rules exist, but another part knows that isn’t where this was ever going to end.
“You have a deal, Nico.”
Domenico’s hand moves. “No!”
He goes for his gun, a sleek piece half-hidden under his coat, a familiar gesture he’s probably made a thousand times. His fingers close on the grip, his elbow bends…
The crack of Nico’s shot slams through the space, impossibly loud, the kind of sound your body recognizes before your brain does.
For a split second, everything freezes.
Then Domenico jerks, the impact punching into his chest, just left of center. His eyes go wide with disbelief as he stumbles back, coat flaring. Blood blooms over his shirt like a dark flower.
He drops to his knees.
For a moment, he stays there, breath ragged, gaze swinging between the three brothers like he’s trying to choose which of them to hate most in the last seconds he has.
“You… owe me…” he manages, voice wet.
“No,” Nico says softly. “We owe you this.”
Domenico’s eyes find mine.
For the first and last time, there’s something like recognition there. Not quite remorse. Not quite peace. Just a brief, strange acknowledgment that I exist outside the role he wrote for me.
Then he slumps sideways.
The warehouse exhales.
“Leave, and the deal still stands,” Nico promises.
Orlov, ever the survivor, raises his hands, dropping the cane. Men in dark tactical gear flood in from the side entrance. Our men, the ones Matteo and Adi positioned earlier, despite Domenico’s insistence on ‘no extra baggage’.
They disarm the remaining Russians with professional efficiency, and escort them from the building.
The air is thick with cordite and breathing and the echo of what we just did.
I step out from behind the pillar, legs shaky, and look at the body on the floor.
Domenico looks smaller now. The lines on his face have softened, the anger bled out somewhere I can’t see. He could be any old man who made too many bad choices and not enough amends.
Except he isn’t.
He’s the man who killed my father, who tried to burn me alive, who spent decades turning a family name into an anchor.
Nico comes to stand beside me. His hand finds mine again, his fingers warm. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I think I will be.”
We watch as Adi directs the cleanup, his voice calm and precise. Matteo talks to the tactical team leader, gesturing to Domenico’s body.
“The board member?” I ask, remembering Domenico’s earlier brag. “The one still loyal to the old ways?”
“We’ll find him,” Adi says, joining us. “Rossi had names. Domenico confirmed one when he thought we weren’t listening. We’ll dig him out like the weed he is.”
“And Orlov?” I ask, glancing at the Russian as he gets into a large SUV.
“Orlov is done,” Nico says. “One way or another. He’s not our main problem anymore.”
“That was him,” I say, nodding toward Domenico.
“That was him,” Matteo agrees.
We stand there a moment, the four of us, in the place their father started, the place their uncle tried to reclaim.
Legacy hangs heavy in the air.
It doesn’t feel like a chain anymore.
It feels like a choice.
Nico turns to me, his face softening in a way it never does out here. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet the rest of the family,” he says.
I snort, the sound half-hysterical, half-relieved. “Next time we’ll stick to turkey and cookies.”
He leans his forehead against mine, the world receding briefly to just the two of us. “There will be a next time,” he says. “Christmas. New Year. All of it. We’re going to make it there, you and me.”
“I know,” I say, and this time I believe it.
“We’ll go home soon,” he says, voice low. “We’ll clean this up. We’ll talk to your mother. We’ll sit Rossi up in his hospital bed and tell him he was right all along.”
“And then?” I ask.
“And then,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth, “we build something they can’t burn down.”