Chapter 50: Same gun and daggers

~ VITTORIO’S POV ~

Soft laughter echoes faintly through the corridor, spilling into the dining hall before the sound of footsteps follows.

That must be Elena.

The melody of her laugh is light, carefree, a tone I’ve almost forgotten. For a moment, I close my eyes and try to imagine the little girl she used to be, the one who’d run into my arms every morning, her tiny arms wrapping around my neck, the sound of her giggle filling this very hall.

But those days are gone.

Before I can steady the turmoil rising in my chest, she walks in, not alone. Eirlys follows closely beside her, her hand brushing Elena’s arm in a gesture so gentle it almost aches to witness.

“Elena, you look radiant this morning,” Eirlys says softly.

Elena smiles, truly smiles and it’s not for me.

“Eirlys ma’am, please sit next to me,” she says, her voice carrying that bright lilt that used to belong to me alone.

My eyes meet Eirlys’s for a fleeting second. There’s something steady and unreadable in her gaze before she looks away, settling beside my daughter.

“Yes, dear,” she answers with that same warm tone, like she’s speaking to something fragile and precious.

And I realize… she’s speaking to what I broke.

I watch them sit, and Elena doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. She acts as though I’m invisible, as if I’m just a piece of furniture in this grand, hollow house.

It’s infuriating. It’s heartbreaking.

It almost feels like I’m watching another man’s daughter, someone else’s child, sitting there across from me, the one I failed to protect, the one who now flinches at my presence.

I thought we were melting the ice between us. I thought yesterday’s “thank you” meant something. It was the first word of appreciation I’d heard from her lips in years, and for a brief second, it made me believe she was coming back to me. That maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to see the father in me again.

But this morning? It’s like it never happened.

Claire enters swiftly, carrying trays of breakfast, steaming eggs, freshly baked rolls, and strong black coffee that does nothing to wake the dead in me.

“Thank you,” Eirlys says kindly to Claire.

My gaze lifts from my plate to Eirlys again. There’s grace in her every move, and I know, she’s the reason Elena softened yesterday. She’s the bridge between us. If I can keep her close, maybe she’ll speak highly of me, maybe she’ll help Elena see me differently.

I clear my throat. “I’ve called the hospital,” I announce, trying to sound casual but firm. “They’re sending a nurse already.”

Eirlys nods, offering a polite smile. “Okay, thanks.”

Her words are calm, measured.

For a brief moment, Elena’s eyes flick toward me. It’s fleeting, almost reluctant, but it’s something. Yet she says nothing, turns back to her plate as though the toast in front of her is far more deserving of her attention than her father.

Then Paolo walks in. His heavy shoes announce him before his voice does.

He leans close, lowering his tone. “There’s information of your interest, sir. The casino don, he wants to see you in regards.”

The casino don. Dante Bellini.

That snake.

My jaw tightens instantly. He’s never up to any good. The last time we spoke, he tried to pull one over me, thought he could cheat me, outsmart me.

I pity the fool.

I give Paolo a subtle nod to stand down. “Later,” I murmur, waving him off with a flick of my wrist.

He straightens immediately, bows his head, and leaves the room.

The silence that follows is thick, fragile, like a glass about to crack.

I force myself to finish my breakfast, though each bite tastes like cardboard. My thoughts keep drifting to Elena’s cold silence, to Eirlys’s cautious warmth, to the endless guilt that eats me from within.

Eventually, Eirlys excuses herself politely, leaving just me and my daughter in the room.

The air grows heavier.

“Elena,” I begin, my voice quieter than I intended. “How are you doing?”

She looks up slowly, meeting my gaze with eyes that mirror her mother’s, those hazel orbs that used to look at me with love, now dulled by resentment.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she says, tone clipped but not as sharp as before.

That’s… different.

Before, she would have snapped, “Why do you care?” or simply walked out. Now, there’s at least a formality, maybe even restraint.

She stands, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape against the marble floor, clearly ready to leave.

“Elena, wait,” I say, rising to my feet. My hand trembles slightly as I rest it on the table. “Our relationship… it’s been filled with hatred, and I understand that. But please, give me a chance to make things right.”

Her head jerks back toward me, eyes wide with disbelief. Then anger floods them like a wave crashing against a brittle shore.

“To make things right?” she thunders.

The sound of her fury is almost poetic, she takes that tone from me. I hear my own rage in her voice, the very same fire I once used to control everything and everyone around me.

“Can you bring her back? Can you?” she rages, stepping closer.

I feel my heart cave inward. “I can’t,” I whisper. “But please, Elena….”

She cuts me off, her voice trembling now. “If you want my forgiveness, bring Mom back… bring her back to me.”

Her hands clench at her sides, her lips quiver. “You kill on a daily basis, Father. You deal in death. You command men to end lives. And just as you’ve taken the lives of others, that same gun was measured to Mom.”

The words strike like bullets. My chest burns, my breath staggers. I look at her, my daughter, the reflection of my sins.

“Elena…” I breathe out, the word cracking. “I’m sorry.”

It’s all I can say. The apology feels pathetic, worthless, but it’s all I have left.

She stares at me, not with hate now, but with something far worse. Disappointment.

Then, without another word, she turns and walks out of the dining room. Her footsteps echo down the hall, fading slowly until there’s nothing but silence again.

I stand there, motionless.

The dining table looks vast and empty without her presence. The untouched coffee, the fading warmth in the room, all of it feels like a cruel reflection of what I’ve become.

Truly, by the gun and dagger I wielded, I killed.

And the same weapon, the same fate, was measured to my wife.

My empire, my pride, my power — all built on blood. And the price of that blood was love.

Now all that’s left of me is a man standing in the ruins of his own choices, haunted by the echoes of laughter that no longer belong to him.