Morning broke, but it carried no peace.
The estate was too quiet, as though the stone walls themselves had absorbed the violence of the last days and now held it prisoner. The birds outside sang, but their calls sounded faint, smothered by the silence that stretched across every hallway. Guards patrolled in tighter rotations, their boots striking gravel with a steady crunch that grated on Lottie's nerves. The gates loomed tall and immovable, and yet she had never felt more exposed.
Franco's absence was everywhere.
He had been loud, unafraid to speak when others hesitated. He filled rooms with laughter, even in the darkest hours. Now, the halls felt starved of that warmth, stripped of something vital. The staff moved like ghosts, eyes lowered, their voices hushed as though any sound might summon another death. Meals went untouched, curtains remained drawn. It was as if the whole house had entered mourning—only no one dared admit it aloud.
Lottie hadn't slept. She'd lain awake in bed with her fists twisted in the sheets, her eyes fixed on the ceiling while Franco's dying words looped endlessly in her mind.
She isn't who she thinks she is.
Why those words? Why her? Why now?
By midmorning, restlessness drove her from her room. She drifted barefoot through the corridors, the marble floor cool beneath her feet, her hand brushing the wall for balance she didn't truly need. She wasn't sure where she was going until she found herself in the gallery—the long, echoing room lined with oil-painted Cavellis, each ancestor staring down in gilded frames.
Their painted eyes followed her every step. Hard eyes, calculating eyes. Men and women carved into history through blood and survival. Their judgment pressed down on her chest until she struggled to breathe.
She whispered to herself, almost a prayer: "What did Franco mean?"
"Looking for answers in the dead?"
She flinched at the voice.
Gabe leaned against the archway, jacket discarded, tie loose around his throat. An unlit cigarette rolled idly between his fingers. His presence filled the room with that suffocating mix of power and danger that was uniquely his. But today, there was something else in his stance—something heavy. His shoulders bore a weight he rarely showed.
"Maybe they're more willing to give them than you are," she said, sharper than she meant.
His jaw flexed. He pushed off the doorway and stepped inside, slow and deliberate, as though every stride was a choice. "You think Franco's last words mean something. They don't."
"Don't they?" She faced him, pulse quickening. "He knew he was dying, Gabe. He could have said anything. And he chose that. Why?"
His gaze darkened, unreadable. "People say a lot of things when death has them by the throat."
Her laugh was brittle, a crack in glass. "You always have an excuse. Always a neat explanation to sweep it under the rug." Her voice wavered. "But I'm not blind. Something's wrong. I feel it."
For once, his mask slipped. His composure cracked just enough for her to glimpse what lay beneath.
In a sudden, forceful movement, he closed the space between them and pinned her back against the cold wall beneath the watchful eyes of his ancestors. His hands bracketed her shoulders, his face inches from hers, his breath warm and steady despite the storm in his eyes.
"You don't feel it," he hissed. "You know it. And that's the problem."
Her breath caught, her body caught between fear and the inexplicable pull she always felt when he was this close. "Then tell me. Tell me what you're hiding."
For a moment, the world narrowed to just them—the heat of his chest so near hers, the flicker of truth burning behind his eyes. His lips parted, and she felt the weight of something enormous balanced on the edge of his tongue.
Then his phone buzzed.
The sound shattered everything.
He tore his gaze from her, jaw clenching as he pulled the phone from his pocket. His voice was clipped when he answered. "Speak."
A pause. His expression hardened, lethal fury carving into his features. "Where?"
Another pause.
"Keep it secure. I'm on my way."
The call ended. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his movements precise, his eyes colder than she had ever seen them.
"What is it?" she asked, heart hammering.
"Vitale sent a gift."
Her stomach knotted. "What kind of gift?"
He crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of water with deliberate care, and downed it in one swallow. The ritual bought him time, but it only stoked her dread.
"A package," he said finally. "Left at the north wall. Addressed to you."
Her mouth went dry. "What was in it?"
He set the glass down, the sound sharp in the silence. "A birth certificate."
Her heart lurched violently. "What?"
"Not yours." His gaze pinned her, unreadable. "At least not the one you've always known. This one had your name—but a different father."
The words gutted her. The gallery spun, the portraits warping in her vision. "You're lying."
His jaw tightened. "I wish I were."
She shook her head, backing away, her hands trembling. "That's impossible. My father—he raised me. He—"
"He loved you." Gabe's voice softened, only for an instant. "But love isn't blood."
Tears stung her eyes, blurring the room. Anger surged, cutting through her shock like fire through ice. "You knew."
Silence.
"You knew all along," she whispered, broken. "And you said nothing."
He moved toward her, hand half-lifted as if to touch her arm, but she flinched back. "Don't."
His hand fell uselessly to his side. His face hardened again, the moment of softness gone. "This isn't the time, Lottie. Vitale isn't just after you because of me. He wants you erased because of who you are."
Her chest heaved, breath jagged. "Then tell me who I am."
But he didn't. He turned toward the door, his shoulders rigid with the weight of unspoken truths.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, her voice breaking.
"To burn the package before Vitale gets what he wants."
And then he was gone—leaving her trembling beneath the cold stares of the Cavelli dead, her world unraveling thread by thread, every certainty she'd clung to dissolving into ash.
She slid down the wall, pressing her palms to her face, the silence of the gallery swallowing her whole. For the first time since arriving in this gilded cage, she felt not just trapped—but unmade.