Luca's pov –
The first lesson my uncle ever taught me: trust is a loaded weapon.
You keep it pointed down until the moment you need it — and then you fire without hesitation.
That morning, I fired.
Not bullets. Not yet.
But orders.
The estate buzzed with motion: men securing the perimeter, Marco coordinating surveillance, encrypted calls bouncing across continents.
And through it all, Elena played the piano like nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
Father Nicola was dead. Shot in the head before he could finish the ceremony that tied our families together. A rat, it turns out — smuggling information to a rival whose name hadn't been spoken in this house since the Palermo Massacre.
Emilio Valentini.
Elena's father.
Her loyalty was still a question.
But mine wasn't.
I knew where I stood. I always had. Since the moment I saw my father collapse on the marble at the foot of those stairs, blood slicking the stone. Since the moment I picked up the gun he dropped.
I don't hesitate.
But she does.
And that might be what gets us both killed.
By noon, we had a name for the shooter.
Dmitri Kirov.
Ex-Spetsnaz. Clean record. No public affiliations. But Bratva, through and through.
And he didn't come alone.
"There's chatter from Prague," Marco said, tossing a tablet onto the desk. "Encrypted burst transmission hit three towers in twelve minutes. We traced it back to an alias Kirov used in Vienna."
He tapped the screen.
Photos. Satellite. Grainy but clear.
Two men. One woman. Armed.
"The girl?" I asked.
Marco hesitated.
Then swiped to the next frame.
Elena.
Walking down a Vienna street at dusk. Coat open, hair tied back, eyes forward. A man walking behind her — Kirov. Just out of reach.
"She knew," Marco said. "She's seen them before."
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew that too.
I found her in the courtyard garden, crouched beside the lemon trees my grandmother planted when she was seventeen.
She wore black, as always. A blade tucked into her boot, a second in her braid.
I'd seen her fight once.
She moved like silk dipped in blood.
"Vienna," I said.
She looked up slowly. Didn't rise. "You've got surveillance now?"
"You didn't mention they followed you."
"I didn't know they were Bratva."
"Bullshit."
She stood. "You want to accuse me of something, Luca? Be a man and say it."
I stepped closer. "You were the only variable."
Her mouth curved. Not quite a smile. "So now I'm the breach?"
"You were seen passing information to an asset outside Prague."
She blinked. "An asset? You mean a friend."
"I don't believe in coincidence."
She scoffed. "No, you believe in preemptive violence and emotionally stunted loyalty."
I grabbed her arm before I could stop myself. "I've killed men for less than that."
"And yet I'm still breathing," she whispered. "Maybe that's your mistake."
I didn't let go.
Neither did she.
And the air between us cracked like ice underfoot.
Later, I stood in the vault room beneath the estate — a room only five people in the world had access to — staring at the blackboard of connections drawn in red thread and pins.
Kirov. The Orlovs. Valentini.
The three pillars of chaos circling us like vultures.
"She's not the breach," Marco said.
I turned. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
"I ran diagnostics on our inner comms. The leak came through a burner SIM routed through Palermo. Guess where it was last pinged?"
He tossed a phone at me.
I caught it.
The screen lit up.
Via della Ruggine.
The home my uncle swore he never returned to.
A safehouse.
Now compromised.
"So it was him," I said.
Marco nodded.
"My own blood," I murmured.
Again.
How many times would I have to say that before it stopped tasting like ash?
At midnight, I stood at Elena's door.
Not to accuse.
Not to beg.
Just… to see if she'd open it.
She didn't.
But the piano started again.
Same song.
Same sadness.
And I stood there until it ended.