The shot still echoed in her ears.
Even after the courtyard had emptied and Franco's body had been dragged away, Lottie could hear it—sharp, final, ringing through her skull like the toll of a bell. It had been less than an hour since the gun went off, but time had stopped meaning anything. The night stretched endlessly, suspended on that sound.
Every time she blinked, she saw it again. The way his head had snapped back. The spray of crimson against the pale stone wall. The thud of his body as it crumpled. The guards hadn't hesitated. No one had. Except her.
Franco was gone.
Her knees drew tighter to her chest where she sat curled on her bed, the heavy blanket slipping uselessly from her shoulders. She shivered anyway, though her skin burned as if fevered. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, no matter how tightly she gripped them together.
It wasn't just death that haunted her. It was Franco's kindness—his quiet words, his gentle manner. He had been one of the few who had treated her like more than Gabe's responsibility or Vitale's target. He'd joked with her, listened to her ramble about books when no one else would. He had smiled. He had made her believe she could still find pieces of normal here in this cage of stone and steel.
And yet he'd betrayed them.
Or worse—betrayed her.
The betrayal hollowed her chest. But it wasn't even that which gnawed at her insides most.
It was his last words.
Because she isn't who she thinks she is.
The syllables replayed again and again, cruel as any knife. They'd spilled from his mouth as blood bubbled at his lips, and even now, hours later, she couldn't shake them.
What did he mean? What truth had he been ready to die for?
The door opened without warning, as it always did with Gabe. No knock. No pause. Just the heavy swing of wood, his presence filling the room before she could catch her breath.
He looked carved out of shadows. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, veins taut beneath skin smeared faintly with blood. The holster at his side gleamed darkly under the dim light. He didn't move immediately, just stood there against the door like he owned the space, like he owned her.
Her eyes dropped to his hands. Blood still clung to them. Franco's blood.
The sight tightened something in her chest until she thought she might suffocate.
He shut the door with a quiet click and leaned against it. Silence swelled thick, heavy with everything unsaid. His presence was suffocating and magnetic all at once.
"You should eat," he said finally, voice rough, grating like stone dragged over stone.
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since morning."
"Do you expect me to sit there and chew after what just happened?" She hugged her knees tighter, nails biting into her own skin.
His gaze flicked over her, dark and unreadable. Then he crossed the room in slow, steady steps. He didn't sit—he loomed, his shadow swallowing the space.
"You can't let this shake you," he said.
Her head snapped up, anger flaring through the fog of grief. "Shake me? Franco betrayed us, and you—" Her voice broke, catching on the lump in her throat. She forced it out anyway. "You shot him like he was nothing."
Something sharp flashed in his eyes, but his voice stayed even. "He was nothing the second he chose Vitale over us. Over you."
"Then why did he say what he did?" she demanded, her voice trembling but loud. "Why tell me I'm not who I think I am? What does that mean, Gabe?"
A shadow passed over his face. His jaw flexed, muscle twitching tight. For the briefest instant, something dangerous flickered there—something he didn't want her to see. Then it was gone, buried beneath the iron mask he wore so well.
"It meant nothing," he said flatly.
Her heart cracked at the dismissal. "Don't lie to me." She pushed to her feet, rage and grief trembling through her. "Don't stand there and pretend it's nothing. Not after everything. Not after Daniel—"
His hand shot out, quicker than she could blink. His fingers caught her chin, holding her face firmly, forcing her eyes to meet his. His grip wasn't cruel, but it was unyielding, immovable as steel.
"Don't say his name right now," he said, voice low and hard enough to shake her bones.
Her breath hitched. Her body stilled, not out of submission but out of shock. His touch seared through her, the weight of him impossible to ignore.
"You don't want the truth yet, Lottie," he murmured, his gaze burning into hers. "Because once you hear it, you can't go back."
Her lips parted, words caught somewhere between fear and fury. "So it is true," she whispered.
His grip faltered, then fell away. He stepped back, dragging a hand through his dark hair, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw something new in him. Not rage. Not power. Not ruthless control.
Tiredness. Bone-deep weariness.
"You'll know when it's time," he said finally. His voice was softer now, though it carried the weight of finality.
Her pulse hammered. "You don't get to decide that for me."
Their eyes clashed, the air between them electric, crackling with defiance and something heavier—something they both refused to name. His silence was a prison, and she was done being a captive.
For a moment, she thought he might bend. Might finally crack and tell her. But then his expression hardened again, the mask snapping back into place.
He turned for the door, his shoulders squared like a wall. "Vitale's not done. Franco was just the start. From now on, you don't take a step without me or Marco. Not one."
And then he was gone, the door shutting with a quiet finality that felt louder than any slam.
She sank back to the bed, heart pounding, throat raw. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her mouth, muffling a cry that clawed its way free.
Not who she thinks she is.
The words spiraled through her again, louder, harsher, until they became the only sound she could hear.
Downstairs, Gabe poured himself a drink, the amber liquid sloshing into crystal. He swallowed a mouthful, but the burn did nothing to quiet the storm in his chest.
He leaned over the desk in his study, the glass still in his hand. The silence here was different than upstairs—not heavy with grief, but with memory.
Franco's last words pulsed in his head. Words he hadn't wanted her to hear. Words meant to die with him.
But Lottie had heard them.
She isn't who she thinks she is.
His hand clenched around the glass, and the crystal cracked in his grip. Whiskey spilled across the desk, mingling with blood welling from his palm. He didn't flinch.
He couldn't.
Because Franco had been right.
Charlotte Rossi wasn't just Daniel's sister. She wasn't just a Rossi at all.
She was something else. Something dangerous. Something Vitale would burn the city to erase.
And if the truth ever reached her ears—if she ever knew what blood really ran in her veins—there would be no cage, no fortress, no Gabe Cavelli strong enough to hold her.