The cliffs swallowed the sound. For a heartbeat, everything went still—the wind, the sea, even time itself seemed to pause, holding its breath. Then the echo came, ricocheting off stone, scattering across the waves like shattered glass.
Marco staggered back, the world tilting beneath him. He looked down, half-expecting to see blood blooming across his chest, but there was nothing. Just smoke curling in the air between them.
Matteo's arm trembled. His eyes widened slightly, confusion flashing before he realized—the bullet hadn't hit.
Behind him, a voice broke through the storm.
"Drop it."
Isabella.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her hair whipped wild by the wind, rain streaking her face. Her hands were steady, but the gun she held looked too heavy for her—like it belonged to another world, one she didn't want to be part of.
Matteo's lips curved into something cruel. "Of course," he murmured. "The girl. Always the girl."
"Step away from him," she said, her voice low but firm.
Marco found his breath, the shock breaking into realization. "Isabella, don't—"
"Quiet," she snapped. Her eyes didn't leave Matteo. "You've done enough."
Matteo tilted his head, studying her. "You think you can stop this? You have no idea what you've walked into."
"I know enough," she said. "I know he tried to save you."
That caught him. For the first time, Matteo hesitated. Rain ran down his face like tears he wouldn't allow himself to shed. "Save me?" he repeated, the words strange on his tongue. "He let me burn."
"No," Isabella said. "He never stopped looking for you."
Lightning cracked again, bright and merciless. In its light, she could see it all—the brokenness behind Matteo's rage, the years of rot and ruin that had eaten through him. A brother turned stranger, a man consumed by ghosts he couldn't bury.
The sea below them roared, climbing higher against the rocks. The storm was moving closer, fierce and electric.
Matteo's grip on the gun tightened again, but his aim faltered. "You don't understand," he said, almost to himself. "Everything we were—all of it—was a lie. He took everything. Our father, our home, my name—"
"Then stop him with the truth," Isabella said, stepping closer. "Not with a bullet."
Marco's voice broke through, rough and quiet. "Please, Matteo."
That single word—please—hung between them, heavier than the storm.
For a moment, Matteo's hand lowered. The weight of his own exhaustion showed in the slump of his shoulders, the years of vengeance collapsing into something fragile. The gun dropped slightly, the barrel dipping toward the wet ground.
And then a sound—footsteps crunching from the darkness behind Isabella.
Matteo's eyes snapped up, alert again.
"Marco!" Isabella turned, but it was too late.
A second shot rang out.
She flinched, spinning toward the noise. One of Luca's men—a guard, face pale with fear—stood at the treeline, his weapon still smoking. Matteo staggered backward, a dark bloom spreading across his side.
"No!" Marco lunged forward, catching him before he fell.
Matteo's body was heavy, all muscle and memory. His breath came in ragged pulls, and the anger that had defined him for years was already fading from his eyes.
"I didn't…" Matteo gasped, blood seeping through his fingers. "Didn't mean…"
"Don't talk," Marco said, voice shaking. "Stay with me."
Matteo's mouth twitched in a broken smile. "You… still think you can fix things."
"Always," Marco whispered.
The storm broke above them—thunder crashing, rain pouring in relentless sheets. Isabella dropped beside them, her gun forgotten in the mud.
Matteo looked at her, his eyes unfocused. "You look like her," he murmured.
"Like who?" Isabella asked softly.
"Our mother," he breathed. "She used to stand like that… defiant."
Marco's throat closed. "Matteo—"
But Matteo only shook his head weakly. "You should've let me stay dead."
Then his body went still.
The world fell silent again, the kind of silence that steals the air from your lungs.
For a long moment, Marco couldn't move. His hand was still pressed against Matteo's wound, but there was no pulse beneath it. Just warmth fading into cold.
Isabella reached out, touching his arm gently. "Marco…"
He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on his brother's face—the same scar, the same shadow of the boy he used to know. "He was right," Marco whispered. "I should've gone back for him."
"You tried," Isabella said. "Sometimes love isn't enough to save someone who doesn't want saving."
Marco exhaled shakily, the sound half a sob. He looked out toward the cliffs, where the sea was still raging against the rocks. "He used to say the ocean was a god," he murmured. "Said it took what it wanted and gave nothing back."
"Then let it take the pain too," Isabella said quietly.
Marco nodded, though he didn't believe it. Not yet.
When the storm finally began to ease, the horizon bled pale gray. The sea calmed, carrying Matteo's last breath into its endless rhythm.
Isabella rose slowly, drenched and trembling. "We should go," she said.
Marco didn't move right away. He brushed the rain from Matteo's hair, closing his eyes. "Goodbye, brother."
Only then did he stand, turning toward Isabella. There was something hollow but resolute in his gaze.
"What happens now?" she asked.
Marco looked out over the cliffs one last time. "Now," he said, "we finish what he started. And we find out who really buried him alive."
Lightning flashed once more across the sea—bright, final, like a promise.
The cliffs looked different in the dawn. Not teeth anymore. Just stone. Just silence.
But the ghosts?
They were still watching.