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“Should’ve known better than to cross a Pressutti,” Dante spits out, his voice laced with venom.
Rocco doesn’t flinch, doesn’t beg. Instead, he stands taller, his eyes never leaving Dante’s. “You’re no man, Dante—just a bitch that runs crying to Daddy.”
Dante’s finger tightens on the trigger, but before the hammer can fall, the cock of another gun sounds, making everyone tense and I peer around Dante to see Leone stride in, an aura of power and fury radiating from him. He moves with lethal grace, his own gun materializing in his hand.
“Put it down, Dante,” Leone orders, pressing the muzzle of his gun against his brother’s temple. “Or I’ll blow your useless head off.”
“Leone!” Dante exclaims, a twisted smirk playing on his lips. “Father will be so displeased to hear you choose this... mongrel over family.”
“You’re not family, Rocco is. Family doesn’t kill each other,” Leone growls, his voice low and dangerous. “And you’re not worth the air you breathe. Get the fuck out of my house.”
“Family is all you have, Leone,” Dante retorts, mockery dripping from every syllable. “I’m just trying to look out for you. So disappointing.”
Leone’s scoff slices through the tension in the room like a knife, sharp and swift. “Like you were with Lydia when you stuck that needle in her arm?” His words are a razor, carving away any pretense of civility between the brothers.
Dante’s eyes flash with a dangerous light, but his voice is as smooth as silk when he replies. “As I said, I was looking out for you. You should be grateful. You would have had that gold-digging bitch strapped to you for life.” The malice in his tone is palpable, and it sends a shiver racing down my spine.
“Grateful?” Leone’s laugh is cold, humorless. “For your twisted version of loyalty? I think not.”
I watch my heart pounding as the two men circle each other.
The sneer that curls Dante’s lip doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, those dark orbs hold a promise of retribution. “You’ll see, brother. When everything you care about crumbles, you’ll wish you listened to me.”
Rage vibrates in the air, a palpable current that seems to crackle and spit with Leone’s fury. “She was fucking clean!” His bellow ricochets off the walls, echoing my own pounding heartbeat.
Dante’s laughter is cruel and chilling, like a razor blade across my nerves. “Was she?” His voice oozes disdain, and his lips twist in a mirthless smirk as he leans in close enough for his breath to brush against Leone’s face. “Were you really that blind, Leone? She was never clean—she just got better at hiding it.” And with those biting words, he straightens, his exit marked by a smugness that cloaks him like a second skin.
I stand there, more confused than ever, caught in the crossfire of their hatred. The secrets they volley between them are daggers I can’t see but feel all too keenly.
There’s a moment—a single heartbeat—where the outcome balances on a knife-edge. Then, without another word, Dante turns on his heel and strides from the room, leaving a wake of animosity so thick it chokes me.
Leone watches him go, the muscle in his jaw ticking. When he finally turns to face me, his eyes have softened, but they’re no less intense. Leone’s attention snaps to Rocco, his voice low and urgent. “Are you okay?”
In response, Rocco nods, his jaw set.
“Head into the casino. Help Milo cover for me,” Leone commands, and then, unexpectedly, his gaze softens as it lands on me. The transition from storm to calm disorients me. “We’re going out for the day,” he tells me, stepping closer to cup my face with his hand. “Are you alright?”
“I am,” I reply, though my voice trembles slightly.
“Good.” He reaches out, and his fingers brush against mine in a surprisingly tender gesture given the violence that just simmered in the air. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and there’s a warmth in his voice that makes me forget, just for a second, the darkness surrounding us.
Leone surprises me by taking me to visit Emma. The coolness of the hospital’s air is a stark contrast to the maelstrom of emotions I’ve been caught in. Leone’s hand at my back is steady, guiding me through the sterile corridors that smell of antiseptic and death. We turn the corner, and I see her—Emma, fragile as a bird with tubes like tethers, her smile though is bright, and she has far more color than I have seen in years in this clinical world.
“Fallon!” Her voice, weak but unmistakably warm, cuts through the bleakness as I move toward her room. Her eyes light up, but a commotion diverts my attention before we can exchange another word. I freeze, looking at Leone. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
Marcus, a familiar face from the casino floor, looks like he’s shouldering the world’s weight as he maneuvers a wheelchair toward us. The air between Leone and Marcus is tense the moment our eyes meet. Marcus’ arms open, and without a second thought, I step into the embrace, feeling the solid warmth of an old friend. But the hug is short-lived; Leone’s hand clasps around my hip, yanking me back to his side with proprietary firmness. I stumble slightly, caught off guard by the sudden movement.
“Good to see you, Fallon,” Marcus says, his voice steady despite the daggers being thrown his way. He steps back, hands raised in a gesture of peace, but his eyes hold mine for a moment too long—a silent message passing through that look.
“Dr. Stevens,” I say, pointing to the kind-faced man approaching us. His smile is a balm, soothing the jagged edges of the morning.
“Paperwork Marcus. Morning Fallon, I have wonderful news,” Dr. Stevens announces, his eyes twinkling. “Emma’s condition has improved so much faster than we anticipated. She’ll be discharged sooner than expected.”
My heart leaps in my chest, hope surging like a wave. “You mean—”
“Yes,” he confirms, nodding enthusiastically. “She’s strong. Her recovery has been nothing short of a miracle.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, a sound of pure joy I haven’t heard from myself in what feels like lifetimes. I glance up at Leone, expecting to find annoyance, but instead, there’s a softening in his eyes, a rare glimpse of something resembling humanity.
