"Fuck you."
"You know," Dante said, lips curling as he lifted the gun again, "if you had, this would've been far less complicated. So tell me, who's the father?"
"Definitely not you," I snapped. "At least."
The blow came fast. Metal cracked against my cheek, white pain detonating behind my eyes. I went down hard, palms scraping against the pavement as the world tilted.
That was when I saw it.
A jagged shard of glass near my hand, torn from what used to be my car. Sharp and useful.
I curled my fingers around it, keeping my movements quiet.
"So?" he pressed, almost conversational now. "My men followed you. All the way to the hospital. To your gynecologist." He tilted his head, mock curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "And guess what I found out? You're pregnant."
I laughed, short and ugly, pain-split. "Women go to gynecologists without having to be pregnant," I said, lifting my head to look at him like he was an idiot. "Though I suppose that's something you wouldn't know, given your upbringing. Or lack of one."
Dante moved fast.
He knelt in front of me and fisted his hand into my hair, yanking my head back until my neck burned and my vision swam. The gun pressing lightly against my temple. Not enough to fire, but just enough to remind me that he could.
"The only reason you're still breathing," he said quietly, almost calmly, "is because I'm above killing an unborn child."
My stomach dropped.
"Especially," he continued, leaning closer, his voice a poisonous murmur against my ear, "when it might belong to my dead twin brother."
The words split something open inside me.
Rage came first. Hot and blinding. Louder than fear.
I moved before he could register it.
My hand shot up, driving the jagged shard of glass deep into his shoulder, burying it in raw flesh. His breath hitched, those dark eyes widening in shock as I twisted my wrist with savage determination. He ripped his grip from my hair, pain flickering across his face like wildfire, blood seeping through my fingers as his gun clattered to the ground.
I released the knife lodged in the crook of his shoulder as he collapsed to the side, snarling. A guttural sound tearing out of his throat. Never had I seen a much more satisfying sight.
But I didn't relent.
Leaning in close, my teeth clenched, voice trembling with barely contained rage, I hissed, "Maybe I should just end it right here." I pressed the glass harder into his flesh, cold steel biting through muscle and more. "Claim New York, just like I was meant to. But where's the fun in that? Your brother knows damn well how much I crave a good fight, after all."
The all-great, all-knowing Dante, down at my feet like this. Pathetic.
And to think, my grandfather wanted me to marry him.
I knew he was all talk, no action.
He parted his lips to speak when a bullet slammed into the back of his head. Fair and square. Blood sprayed across my clothes. I wiped it from my lips and looked up to the sound of footsteps closing in.
Silence stretched everywhere. The backup I'd called trained their guns on the man approaching me, while Dante's men, still dressed in ridiculous pedestrian clothes, watched with sharp interest. This was the man who had brought down empires. The man powerful figures whispered about in fear. He probably had spies planted among them.
"Barinov," I said, bending to retrieve the gun at my feet and leveling at him. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were here to wipe out their bloodline."
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. "You wear blood well. Suits you."
"This old thing?" I gestured lazily at my blood-soaked pantsuit, then let the mockery fall away. "What are you doing here? I had it handled."
He didn't answer straight away.
Though the smirk stayed in place, I could see it. From the tightness in his shoulders, the way his jaw locked, those dark green eyes cataloguing me with a precision of a man counting injuries he shouldn't care about.
"Just checking," he said lightly. "Now that everything's...resolved, I'll take my leave."
"You realize what you've just done," I said, never lowering the gun as he turned. "This doesn't end here."
A pause.
Then, without looking back, he smiled. Small, private, meant only for me.
"I'd be disappointed if it did, Princess."
And then he was gone, disappearing into the smoke with his men, leaving the battlefield quiet again, exactly the way we needed it to be.
I lowered my gun and turned on my heel, lifting my hand once. Sharp. Final.
My men straightened instantly.
"Check on Sandro," I ordered, already scanning the wreckage. "Now. If he's breathing, I want him conscious. If he's not, well, you all know what to do."
Two of them broke off at once, sprinting toward the car.
"You," I pointed at another, my voice cold and steady despite the ringing in my ears. "Sweep the perimeter. Anyone still alive who isn't ours gets restrained. Anyone who runs gets shot in the leg. I want Dante's men breathing."
"Yes, Signorina."
"And call it in," I continued. "Full lockdown of the area. No press, no police until we're done cleaning this up. I want names, faces, affiliations. Dante couldn't have acted with just our men."
Someone nodded sharply, already on the phone.
If there was one thing our Famiglia abided by, to its core, was that we didn't kill our own. If blood had to be spilled, without proper reason, someone else did it for us.
And if Dante had brought his brother's men, no matter how loyal they were to the Bianchi name, they would always be more loyal to the Ricci blood. They wouldn't turn their guns on their own that easily. Which meant he had gotten these men from elsewhere. I just had to find out who.
I lowered my gaze.
Dante's body lay crumpled at my feet. What remained of his head was barely recognizable, his blood pooling across the cracked pavement. My knife was still buried deep in his shoulder, the handle slick in the glow of streetlights and smoke.
The gun was still in my hand.
I didn't hesitate. I emptied all the bullets and let it rain down over his body before dropping the weapon, letting it clatter beside him.
Whatever guilt I had once carried for Dario died with his twin. The moment Dario conspired with my grandfather behind my back, he made his choice. He had authored his own family's ending.
I owed the Bianchi family nothing now.
Bending down, I wrenched my knife free and wiped the blade clean against his blood-soaked suit before turning away.
Behind me, the street erupted into motion.
Orders were barked. Weapons were checked. Men were dragged out of the shadows and forced to their knees. Someone nodded sharply, already on the phone.
Dante had made his move.
Now it was my turn to finish the war.
New York is finally mine.
Funny how one life had to end, for another to begin.