The night stretched long and sleepless.
Lottie sat by her bedroom window, arms wrapped around herself as the moonlight silvered the gardens below. Guards paced the grounds with rifles slung across their shoulders, their silhouettes sharp against the glow of floodlights. Beyond the gates lay darkness—unknown, waiting, hungry.
Her reflection stared back from the glass, pale and haunted. A different father. The words replayed until her head throbbed. Every memory she'd cherished of her childhood seemed suddenly unstable, fragile as blown glass. The bedtime stories, the way her father called her Lottie-girl, the way he'd carried her on his shoulders to see fireworks in the square. Had it all been built on lies?
She pressed her forehead to the cool pane, whispering to herself, "Who am I?"
The door clicked softly behind her.
Her body stiffened. "If it's you, Gabe, I don't want—"
"It's not Gabe."
She turned, startled. Marco leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, his expression caught somewhere between sympathy and warning. Unlike Gabe, Marco wore his honesty like armor. He didn't hide the world behind silences and half-truths—he simply said less.
"You should sleep," he said.
Lottie shook her head. "I can't."
He studied her for a long moment, then stepped inside. His boots were soundless on the carpet, but his presence carried weight. "Gabe will protect you. You know that, don't you?"
Her throat tightened. "Protect me from Vitale? Or from the truth?"
Marco's gaze sharpened. She saw the flicker—the way his jaw worked, the quick dart of his eyes toward the window. Confirmation enough.
"You know," she whispered. "Don't you?"
His silence was louder than any answer.
She crossed the room in two strides, gripping his arm with shaking hands. "Please, Marco. I'm losing my mind. He won't tell me. If you know, you have to—"
The door slammed open.
Gabe stood in the threshold, his face a mask of shadow and fury. He looked from her grip on Marco's arm to the desperation in her eyes, and the air turned sharp as broken glass.
"Out," Gabe ordered. His voice was low, lethal.
Marco's eyes lingered on Lottie's face for a beat, something like regret flickering there. Then he gently eased free from her hold and left without a word.
When the door shut, silence fell heavy.
"You're questioning my men now?" Gabe's voice was calm, but beneath it simmered a heat that made her pulse race.
"I'm questioning you," she shot back. "Because you refuse to give me answers."
He stalked forward, each step measured, deliberate. The closer he came, the smaller the room felt. "Answers will only paint a target bigger on your back."
She glared up at him, anger sparking through the fear. "I already have a target. You said it yourself—Vitale wants me erased. Why? Because of who I am. And I don't even know who that is!" Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. "You can't keep me blind and call it protection."
He stopped inches from her, looming, his shadow swallowing hers. For a long moment, he just stared, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
Then he exhaled, long and heavy, like a man surrendering to something inevitable. "You think you're ready for the truth?"
Her heart stuttered. "I deserve it."
A knock shattered the moment.
Gabe whirled, his fury snapping taut again. "What?"
Marco's voice filtered through the door. "Vitale struck again. A safehouse was hit."
Gabe yanked the door open. "Casualties?"
"Two. And he left something behind." Marco's expression was grim. "Another message. This time, for her."
The living room was cold despite the fire snapping in the hearth. Gabe stood by the mantel, his posture rigid, while Marco set the package on the coffee table between them.
It was small, wrapped in plain brown paper, sealed with wax.
Lottie's stomach twisted. "I don't want to open it."
"You will," Gabe said. His voice was flat, but his hand hovered near his gun like he expected the paper itself to explode.
Marco slit the wax with a knife and slid the contents out—a single photograph, faded and creased.
Lottie leaned forward, pulse pounding. It was of a woman she didn't recognize—dark hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes filled with quiet fire. She looked young, maybe not much older than Lottie herself.
On the back, scrawled in black ink: Blood never lies.
Her throat closed. "Who is she?"
Neither man spoke.
She whipped toward Gabe, her voice rising. "Who is she?"
His gaze locked with hers, unflinching. "Your mother."
Her knees buckled. She sank onto the couch, clutching the photograph to her chest. "That's not possible. My mother—she died when I was three. I've seen pictures. She didn't look like—"
"She isn't the woman you were told was your mother," Gabe said, voice like gravel. "She was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous."
The fire cracked, the sound loud in the suffocating silence.
Tears blurred Lottie's vision. "Then who am I, Gabe?"
He crouched in front of her, his hands braced on his knees, his face inches from hers. His voice was quiet but sharp as a blade.
"You're not just Rossi blood, Lottie. You're hers. And if Vitale has his way, the world will know exactly what that means."
Her chest heaved, the room spinning. "And what does it mean?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stood, towering over her again, the walls slamming back into place around him. "That's enough for tonight. Marco, double the guard rotations. No one in or out without my word."
Marco nodded and slipped away.
Lottie sat trembling on the couch, clutching the photograph like it was the last tether to her sanity. Her world had splintered again, each shard cutting deeper than the last.
When the door shut, she whispered into the empty room, voice breaking on the words.
"Then who the hell am I?"