I hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at the back of my mind. “Does Giovanni know about these men? The ones you’re building outside Lake Como?”
His jaw tightened instantly, a muscle ticking near his temple.
He looked away for a moment, toward the far wall, as if calculating how much truth to give me.
“You’re the only one who knows,” he said finally. “Giovanni can’t.”
“Why?” I pressed, though I already sensed the answer would be ugly.
“Because he’s compromised,” Dmitri said flatly. “He has a child with Elena Orlov. A son.” His mouth twisted, not in disgust but in something closer to grim understanding. “If I start this war openly, he’ll be forced to choose—his loyalty to me or his boy’s safety. And I won’t put him in that position. Not yet.”
The words settled like lead.
“So you’re doing this alone,” I murmured.
“For now,” he corrected. “But when the time comes—after the Albanians are ashes—I’m not stopping.” His eyes lifted to mine, burning with a ruthless clarity that sent a shiver through me. “I’m bringing down the three families here in Lake Como. All of them. Starting with their patriarchs. The Orlovs daughters. The Morozov elders. What’s left of the Ferraro line. The council itself.”
My breath caught. “That’s rebellion,” I whispered. “Full-scale war against the structure that holds this place together.”
“It’s rot,” he said coldly. “And rot has to be cut out.”
He stood abruptly, the mattress shifting beneath me, and began pacing the length of the room like a caged predator.
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles bleaching white before flushing red again.
“They wiped my memory,” he went on, voice low and vibrating with restrained fury. “Stripped my power piece by piece. Installed Seraphina in my house like a parasite to watch me decay. And you—” He stopped short, breath sharp. “They sold you. The woman who matters most to me. Sold you to the Albanians like livestock.”
The air felt thick, electric.
Rage rolled off him in waves—controlled, compressed, but barely contained.
“They deserve death,” he said simply. “Every last one of them.”
I rose from the bed and crossed the room, laying a tentative hand against his arm. His skin was hot beneath my fingers, tension coiled tight.
“Dmitri,” I said softly. “This path—there’s no coming back from it.”
“I know,” he replied without hesitation.
He pulled away and walked toward the door. Halfway there, he stopped. His shoulders rose and fell once, as if he were steadying himself, then he turned back to face me.
“If I die doing this,” he said quietly, almost gently, “if something goes wrong and I don’t come back... don’t mourn me.”
The words hit like a slap.
I crossed the distance between us in a rush. “Don’t,” I snapped, fear sharpening my voice. “Don’t talk about dying. Don’t even think it.” I grabbed his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric. “I won’t survive another loss like that. I won’t have hope left if you’re gone.”
His eyes flickered, something raw breaking through the steel.
“Stay alive,” I begged. “If not for yourself, then for me. For Vanya. He deserves his father. I deserve—” My voice cracked. “I deserve you staying.”
For a long moment, he just looked at me. Really looked. The hard lines of his face softened, the armor slipping enough for me to see the man beneath—the boy under the oak tree.
“I’ll try,” he said quietly. “For both of you.”
It wasn’t another promise. It was something more honest.
He leaned in, pressing a brief, careful kiss to my forehead—restrained, reverent—then stepped back.