Alessandro Bianchi did not beg. He commanded. He negotiated. He conquered.

But in the silent wake of Hanna’s note and Mikael’s visit, he felt the terrifying urge to fall to his knees.

Eva was a fortress across the room, Sophia curled against her chest like a living shield. The baby’s fist clutched her shirt—a claim he envied. Her eyes, when they flicked to him, were a museum of his greatest sins.

“You don’t have to like me,” he said, his voice rough. “But you will trust me.”

Her laugh cut glass. “Trust you? The man who used my body as a blueprint for my family’s ruin? You didn’t just betray me, Alessandro. You made me complicit in my own humiliation.”

Every word was a knife, finding its way to the bone.

Peccato mortale. A mortal sin.

He crossed the room anyway. “I was twenty-four and thought myself a god. I saw kingdoms and trampled everyone to reach them. Especially you.” His voice lowered. “That man is ash. I will protect you. Her. With my last breath.”

Her mouth trembled, but Sophia stirred—a whimper, a tiny fist in motion—cutting through them like a blade. Eva hummed an old Russian lullaby, soft and devastating.

Alessandro’s chest ached. Madonna Santa, he wanted to close the distance, press his forehead to hers, beg for one chance to atone.

His phone buzzed. The world intruded.

“What?”

The voice on the other end was clipped, urgent.

“Warehouse on Seventh. Bombed. No survivors.”

Alessandro’s grip whitened. “When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

The timing was surgical. Personal.

“They want me walking into dinner knowing how fast they can erase me,” he muttered.

Eva’s gaze sharpened. “The Irish?”

“No.” His certainty was ice. “Too clean. Too fast. This wasn’t a warning. It was a message.”

“You’re paranoid,” she snapped.

His fury lashed out. “Paranoia is why I’m breathing. Why is she?” He pointed at Sophia, small and warm in her arms. “You think I can walk into that viper’s nest blind? You think I can keep you alive if I’m not five moves ahead of every knife?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Protect? Or control?”

The truth hit harder than the bomb. Sometimes he didn’t know the difference.

“I am not your enemy,” he ground out. “But your distrust will make me weak. And weakness gets us all killed.”

Her jaw set like iron. “I can’t trust you. Not after what you did.”

The silence was a coffin between them. He wanted to scream, to kiss her, to confess the truth: It was always you.

Another buzz. A text. His face hardened into the heir’s mask. The man receded; the Don emerged.

“We leave in an hour.”

Eva’s brows arched. “Leave? The bombing—”

“Is the appetizer. The real war is waiting at my mother’s table.”

Marcella Bianchi didn’t enter rooms. She arrived.

The glass dining hall stilled at the sound of her heels. Draped in wine-dark silk and jewels worth a coup, she sat at the head like a queen claiming tribute.

“Alessandro,” she said, without looking at him. “You’ve grown bold.” Her gaze flicked to Eva and the baby. “Well. Hello, Eva. And… a child.”

Eva’s voice was steady. “This is Sophia Ricci.”

Marcella smirked. “She looks like her late parents. Fortunately.”

The word cracked like a whip.

Alessandro stepped in smoothly. “Mother. Let’s eat.”

Silver domes lifted. Steam curled. Marcella swirled her Barolo, the silence stretching.

“Appetizers should never be American,” she said. “Cheeseburgers are a crime against God.” Her eyes lingered on Eva. “Real food is an inheritance. Unlike… some children.”

Eva’s smile was knife-thin.

Camilla moved quietly to take Sophia. The baby didn’t fuss, just stared at the chandelier with eerie calm.

Marcella noticed. Of course she did. “Don’t worry, Eva. She is only a child. They sleep through wars.”

Eva’s tone was a dagger. “She doesn’t need to sleep through wars. She needs to outlive them.”

The air went taut, lethal.

Alessandro tried to shift the current. “Mother, if you need a room prepared—”

Marcella moved before he finished. Her wrist snapped, and crimson wine splashed across his cheek and collar. She hadn’t thrown the glass. Marcella respected Crystal. But wine? Wine was for blood.

“Rooms?” she said, voice soft, lethal. “You offer me rooms in a house where strangers cradle my grandchild?”

Alessandro froze, wine dripping like a wound.

Eva shoved a napkin into his hand. Not kindly. Practically. Then she rose, chair screeching.

“She is not your granddaughter, Marcella. And I don’t break bread with people who mistake ownership for love.” Her voice cut like velvet-wrapped steel. “This dinner has been… illuminating.”

Her heels cracked like gunfire as she left.

Marcella drained her glass in one swallow. Russian women. Always mistaking defiance for strength.”

Alessandro’s jaw was tight enough to crack. “Why are you here, Mother? You don’t do nostalgia.”

Marcella leaned back, smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve lost your grip. You waste yourself on American politics, chasing ghosts, drowning in distraction.” Her jeweled hand clamped over his. “I did not raise you for weakness.”

“You think Sophia is weak?”

Her fingers dug in, sharp as claws. “I think she is dangerous. You should not be sharing guardianship. You should be forging a dynasty. Permanence. Protection. Legacy.”

She leaned in, her perfume and poison heavy in the air.

“Marry her. Or kill her. Anything else is weakness.”

________________________________________

Marcella Bianchi didn’t enter rooms. She arrived.

The glass dining hall stilled at the sound of her heels. Draped in wine-dark silk and jewels worth a coup, she sat at the head like a queen claiming tribute.

“Alessandro,” she said, without looking at him. “You’ve grown bold.” Her gaze flicked to Eva and the baby. “Well. Hello, Eva. And… a child.”

Eva’s voice was steady. “This is Sophia Ricci.”

Marcella smirked. “She looks like her late parents. Fortunately.”

The word cracked like a whip.

Alessandro stepped in smoothly. “Mother. Let’s eat.”

Silver domes lifted. Steam curled. Marcella swirled her Barolo, the silence stretching.

“Appetizers should never be American,” she said. “Cheeseburgers are a crime against God.” Her eyes lingered on Eva. “Real food is an inheritance. Unlike… some children.”

Eva’s smile was knife-thin.

Camilla moved quietly to take Sophia. The baby didn’t fuss, just stared at the chandelier with eerie calm.

Marcella noticed. Of course she did. “Don’t worry, Eva. She is only a child. They sleep through wars.”

Eva’s tone was a dagger. “She doesn’t need to sleep through wars. She needs to outlive them.”

The air went taut, lethal.

Alessandro tried to shift the current. “Mother, if you need a room prepared—”

Marcella moved before he finished. Her wrist snapped, and crimson wine splashed across his cheek and collar. She hadn’t thrown the glass. Marcella respected Crystal. But wine? Wine was for blood.

“Rooms?” she said, voice soft, lethal. “You offer me rooms in a house where strangers cradle my grandchild?”

Alessandro froze, wine dripping like a wound.

Eva shoved a napkin into his hand. Not kindly. Practically. Then she rose, chair screeching.

“She is not your granddaughter, Marcella. And I don’t break bread with people who mistake ownership for love.” Her voice cut like velvet-wrapped steel. “This dinner has been… illuminating.”

Her heels cracked like gunfire as she left.

Marcella drained her glass in one swallow. Russian women. Always mistaking defiance for strength.”

Alessandro’s jaw was tight enough to crack. “Why are you here, Mother? You don’t do nostalgia.”

Marcella leaned back, smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve lost your grip. You waste yourself on American politics, chasing ghosts, drowning in distraction.” Her jeweled hand clamped over his. “I did not raise you for weakness.”

“You think Sophia is weak?”

Her fingers dug in, sharp as claws. “I think she is dangerous. You should not be sharing guardianship. You should be forging a dynasty. Permanence. Protection. Legacy.”

She leaned in, her perfume and poison heavy in the air.

“Marry her. Or kill her. Anything else is weakness.”