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The shot rings out, and Bianca’s scream pierces the air as the gun is shot out of her hand. Blood pours from her now-maimed fingers, the weapon clattering uselessly to the floor.
I watch in stunned silence, the scene playing out in slow motion. Dante’s done this before—shot the phone right out of someone’s ear, with the same unnerving precision. But this is different. This time, it’s Bianca, and her distress is palpable. She clutches her bloody hand to her chest, her face contorted in pain and disbelief.
For a split second, I allow myself to relax. Dante’s absolute control, always a step ahead, and right now I could kiss him for saving my life right after I figure out what the hell went wrong with my father.
But when I look at Orlando, I see something strange. He’s looking at Dante, and his gun is raised, his expression unreadable. There’s a tension in his body that wasn’t there before, something cold and calculating in his eyes that makes my stomach churn with unease.
“Dante?” I glance at Dante, but he hasn’t lowered his weapon either. His gaze is locked on Orlando, and there’s a split second where something passes between them, as if they’re communicating silently.
Orlando’s eyes twitch, and he shakes his head, and Dante’s widen in alarm. Orlando swings his gun to Bianca, his movements deliberate and calm.
“Orlando!” Dante barks, but it’s too late.
Orlando fires.
The first bullet slams into Bianca’s chest, and she crumples to the floor. The second follows almost immediately, and this time, there’s no scream—just a sickening thud as her body jerks under the impact.
Dante’s reaction is immediate. He takes a step toward Orlando and levels his gun at his temple, his eyes blazing with fury. No words are needed.
Orlando slowly lowers his gun, his expression a mix of grim satisfaction and a strange calmness. He raises his hands in surrender, his weapon once again dangling from his thumb.
Dante’s eyes stay locked on Orlando, his finger still on the trigger, his whole body taut with tension. I can see the struggle in him, the war between his loyalty to family and his instinct to protect.
Orlando steps back, moving toward the wall, his hands still raised. “I’m done,” he says quietly, then holsters his gun.
I’m still staring at my father, my mind reeling, when Dante is suddenly beside me, crouching down and gathering me into his arms.
“Christ! Addy. Fuck.” His entire body is shaking as he examines me. I see his sharp intake of breath when he sees my bleeding arm—I haven’t even seen it myself—but I’m guessing it’s not looking pretty.
“I’m okay. I’m okay, Dante.” I reassure him, raising my right arm to cup his face as he pulls off his tie.
“You’re so fucking not. For fuck’s sake, how many bullets do you have to take before it’s enough for a fucking lifetime?”
“Hopefully the last,” I smile, but Dante doesn’t share my humor. Then I wince when he wraps the tie around my arm with trembling fingers, ignoring my protests that it’s not even bleeding anymore.
As if just remembering the other disaster in the room—that a Capo has killed his own wife—Dante turns back to Orlando. “Tell me that’s not what it looked like.”
Orlando raises his head, eyes cold and resolute. “Yep. It’s exactly what it looked like,” he says simply and turns back to the wall.
When Orlando doesn’t say more, I add, “It was she and her brothers. They hired the Novaks.”
Dante nods gravely, already piecing it together. I think he may have got it during their weird eye contact earlier. He helps me to my feet, his movements gentle but his body vibrates with tension still.
The room quickly fills with Capos, their faces knit with confusion and alarm. Nico shoulders his way through, his eyes darting from Bianca’s lifeless body to Orlando’s eerie calmness.
“De Luca,” he barks, “what is the meaning of—”
“That?” Orlando interrupts, his voice bitter and filled with decades of regret. “That was an eighteen-year blind spot. That was who started the decade-long war. Along with her brothers. Right under my fucking nose.”
Nico’s usual composure fractures slightly as he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it uncharacteristically disheveled. “Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Rinaldis. How did we miss this?”
Orlando pushes away from the wall, shoulders slumped with regret. “I lived with her for two decades and I missed it.” Regret, pain, and a fierce protectiveness war across his features.
“Adele,” he starts, his voice rough with emotion, “I am so sorry . . .”
And the weight of it all suddenly hits me. My lids fall closed, and I’m surprised to feel tears slipping down my cheeks. It feels like every single one of my scars is throbbing along with my pounding headache. I nod, suddenly overwhelmed with it all. “I need air.”
Dante understands immediately. He guides me to a nearby window, opening it to let in a rush of cool air. His hand rubs soothing circles on my back as I breathe deeply, trying to center myself.
