The morning after Matteo's return didn't come gently—it clawed its way through the clouds, dragging the stormlight with it. The air was thick, heavy with the kind of silence that follows a declaration of war. I hadn't slept. Neither had Isabella. Every creak of the villa felt amplified, every gust of wind scraping against my nerves like glass.
Luca had doubled the guards, posted men at every corner of the property, but it didn't matter. If Matteo wanted in, he'd find a way. He always did.
I stood by the window in the library, watching the rain ease into a slow drizzle. The gardens were a wreck—mud, broken branches, the fountain cracked from where Matteo had stood the night before. It felt like a scar left deliberately behind. A message.
Behind me, I heard soft footsteps. Isabella. She'd wrapped herself in one of my shirts, her hair still damp from the shower. She looked fragile, but her eyes told a different story—there was steel in them now. Fear, yes, but strength too.
"You haven't moved since last night," she said quietly.
"I'm thinking," I murmured, my eyes still on the horizon.
"About him?"
I turned. "Always about him."
She walked closer, barefoot, her steps soundless against the floor. "Tell me what happened between you two. Why does he hate you so much?"
I almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. "It's not hate. Not really. It's… unfinished business."
Her brow furrowed. "He said something about your father."
I nodded. "Matteo thinks our father owed him something. But he doesn't mean money. He means blood."
She hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"Our father built his empire on loyalty—and betrayal. Matteo wanted a bigger piece of it. When he didn't get it, he sold us out. The night I buried him was the night I buried the family name, too." I paused, exhaling slowly. "But if he's back… that means someone helped him. No one crawls out of the grave alone."
Isabella's gaze softened. "And now he's after you. After us."
I reached out, my hand finding hers. "He's not going to touch you. I'll burn the world before I let him."
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't pull away. "You can't fight ghosts forever, Marco."
"I can try."
Before she could respond, Luca entered, his expression grim. "We found something," he said, holding out a small black envelope.
I took it. The paper was soaked, edges smeared with rain. Inside was a single photograph—taken from the cliffs behind the villa. Isabella, standing by the window last night. Unaware. Vulnerable. And beneath it, a note scrawled in Matteo's familiar hand:
She looks like her mother.
My blood ran cold.
I crumpled the photo in my fist. "How the hell would he know what her mother looked like?"
Luca frowned. "You think he's been watching longer than we thought?"
"No." My voice came out low, almost a growl. "I think he's closer than we realized."
Isabella's eyes widened. "Marco, what if he—"
"Don't," I interrupted. "Don't finish that thought."
But I could see the fear in her face, the same fear clawing at my own chest. Matteo's words echoed again: The debt Father left unpaid.
It wasn't about revenge. It was about legacy. And if he'd mentioned Isabella's mother… then this wasn't just my family's secret. It was hers too.
By afternoon, the sky had cleared, but the tension hadn't. Isabella sat on the terrace, staring out at the sea, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she hadn't touched. I joined her, setting a folder on the table.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Everything I could find about your father," I said. "I think Matteo's message was meant for both of us."
She looked at me sharply. "You think my father knew your family?"
"I think he did more than that." I opened the folder, showing her an old photograph—two men standing beside a black car. One of them was unmistakably my father. The other…
Her breath hitched. "That's him. That's my father."
The wind picked up, scattering loose papers across the terrace, but neither of us moved. The photo had shattered something fragile between us—an illusion of separation that no longer existed.
"Our fathers worked together," I said. "And whatever deal went wrong back then… Matteo thinks we're the ones who have to pay for it now."
She stared at the picture, voice trembling. "He was part of this world, wasn't he? My father?"
"Yes."
A tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away quickly. "He lied to me my whole life."
I wanted to reach for her, but I didn't. Not yet. Some truths you had to face alone.
Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. A text:
"Meet me where it ended. Midnight. Come alone."
No signature. No need for one.
I locked the screen, my decision already made.
Isabella looked up. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I lied.
But she saw through it immediately. "You're going to him, aren't you?"
I didn't answer.
"Marco," she said, standing now, voice rising. "Don't do this. It's exactly what he wants."
"I have to."
"Why? You said we'd do this together!"
I turned to face her, my voice rough. "And if I don't come back, you need to be far away from here. Luca will take you to the safe house."
Her jaw tightened, tears burning in her eyes. "You're not walking into this alone."
"I already am."
Before she could protest again, I stepped closer, my hands cupping her face. "If anything happens to me, promise me you'll run."
"Don't ask me to do that," she whispered.
"I have to."
The air between us vibrated with everything we hadn't said, everything we were afraid to lose. Then I leaned in and kissed her—slow, desperate, final. Her hands clung to my shirt, as if holding me could change fate itself.
When I pulled away, her breath trembled against my lips. "Please come back," she said.
"I'll try," I murmured.
But we both knew that trying wasn't always enough.
Midnight came cloaked in fog. I drove alone to the old docks, the place where Matteo and I had last seen each other alive. The sea was black, waves slapping against rusted metal.
He was there, waiting—leaning against a car like this was some kind of reunion.
"You came," he said.
"Let's end this," I replied.
He smiled that same venomous smile. "Oh, it's far from over, brother. You brought her into this when you fell for her. And now, she's part of the story too."
I lifted my gun. "You touch her, and I'll—"
He laughed. "You still don't get it, do you? She's not yours to protect. She's part of the debt."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Ask your father," he said softly. "If you can find what's left of him."
Then headlights flared behind me. Engines. Doors slamming. I turned, but it was too late—shadows were already closing in. Matteo's men.
And as the gunfire erupted, Matteo vanished into the mist, his laughter echoing through the dark.
I hit the ground, firing back, but all I could think about was Isabella—her voice, her eyes, the promise I'd made.
Back at the villa, she would wake to the sound of silence, to the emptiness where I should've been.
And somewhere beyond the storm, Matteo would be watching, waiting for her next move.
Because this time, the war wasn't about blood or power.
It was about her.