Chapter 78

Chapter 78
The old man’s study is built for intimidation. Every surface is heavy—mahogany desk broad as a ship’s prow, chairs like thrones, shelves packed tight with leather-bound volumes whose spines gleam like the teeth of predators. The fire in the marble hearth is a roaring animal, throwing shadows against the dark wood and catching in the gold accents of Giovanni’s signet ring, the only jewelry he ever wears.

He sits behind the desk with the serenity of a monarch, hands steepled, eyes clear and hard. He does not look up when the door opens, nor when the three enter—he only acknowledges them with a flick of his gaze, the same way a wolf might watch a deer circle too close to its den.

Bell is first through the threshold. She is calm on the outside, but her every step pulses with enough voltage to light the city. Dante follows, back straighter than usual, jaw locked so tight the muscle quivers. Luca enters last, radiating the kind of dangerous energy that makes old-school bodyguards grip their guns tighter, even when it’s their own family at the table.

No one speaks at first. The only sound is the slow burn of the fire and the faint, almost reverent, tick of Giovanni’s watch as he waits for someone else to open.

Bell lays the folder on the desk with a soft, final thud. She doesn’t sit. Dante takes the chair to her left; Luca leans against the glass-fronted bookcase, hands in his pockets but ready.

Giovanni finally looks up, expression blank. “You’ve brought something for me, Isabella?”

Bell peels the folder open, lets the top photo slide across the glass surface. “We have questions,” she says. “And you have answers.”

Giovanni’s face remains unchanged as he picks up the photo—Bell’s mother, radiant and pregnant, Giovanni behind her, hand on her belly, smiling in a way Bell has never seen outside this snapshot of another life. He flicks to the next document: the birth certificate, with its blank father’s line and the damning annotation in his own hand.

“Interesting,” Giovanni says, voice even. “And?”

Bell’s eyes narrow. “Don’t insult me. We want the truth. All of it.”

Dante leans in, voice a controlled growl. “We know what you did. What we don’t know is why you kept it secret.”

For the first time, a flicker—so slight it’s almost imagined—crosses Giovanni’s face. He sets the documents down, folding his hands. The fire cracks behind him, a cue to begin.

“Your mother,” he says to Bell, “was the only thing in this world that could have ruined me. I loved her, and I would have broken every vow, every alliance, to keep her. But she was promised to another—a bastard I adopted to keep the bloodlines pure, to keep the families from killing each other.” He turns the signet ring once, twice. “If I had claimed you, I would have started a war that would burn for a hundred years. So I let the world believe you were his.”

Dante’s hand slams the desk, the sound echoing. “You let us all believe a lie. You raised us on loyalty and then buried your own child in a cover story.”

Giovanni’s composure cracks at the edges. “I did what I had to do. For the family. For all of you.”

Luca’s voice is jagged, almost mocking. “So, what, we’re siblings now? Or is she our aunt? Christ, I don’t even know what to call her.”

Bell shakes her head, furious and broken. “This isn’t about the blood, Giovanni. You made us weapons, then lied about who we were.”

For the first time, Giovanni looks at her—not through her, but at her, as if seeing her as a person and not a piece on a board. His face softens, and his voice, when it comes, is as thin as paper. “You were always mine. I watched you every day, saw myself in you. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. The old rules don’t die easy.”

Dante stands, eyes gone black with hurt. “So what happens now? Are you going to pretend this never happened? Sweep it under the rug like every other dirty secret?”

Giovanni’s mask collapses entirely. “No. You’re my daughter, Isabella. And you’re still a Romano. Nothing changes that.”

Luca laughs, the sound wild, unmoored. “Everything changes that, old man. Everything.”

Bell swallows, voice trembling. “Then why did you let them take me? If I’m your daughter, why did you let me get kidnapped, used as bait?”

The old man’s gaze flickers to the fire. “Because they knew,” he says softly. “The Bianchis, the Delacroix, even our own crew—they all knew, or suspected. If I kept you close, you’d be a target every day of your life. Letting you go was the only way to keep you alive. It was the only thing I could do that felt like love.”

Dante recoils. “You call that love? You call this family?”

Giovanni stands, hands flat on the desk, the years suddenly hanging off him like lead weights. “You think I don’t know what I lost? You think I didn’t count every day?”

There’s a pause, and in it, the fire seems to dim, the air gone thin and cold.

Bell’s hands are fists. She wants to throw the documents at him, wants to scream until her voice shatters, wants to burn the house down with all of them inside. Instead, she turns on her heel, stalking for the door.

Dante is a second behind, but pauses at the threshold. “You should have told us,” he says, not turning. “We could have handled the truth.”

Luca lingers, eyes wild. He gives Giovanni one last look—equal parts pity and contempt—then follows Bell into the hall.

Giovanni sinks back into his chair, eyes on the empty doorway, his hands still trembling with the weight of a life built on necessary sins.

In the corridor, Bell walks fast, boots echoing on the marble. The brothers catch up, but for a long time, nobody speaks. There is no comfort to offer, no strategy to deploy, only the cold knowledge that the game has changed, and they are the only ones left to play it.