Page 257 of Ricardo

I turn my hand beneath Julia’s and hold onto her fingers.

“We cannot touch the Winthrops directly. We don't have enough influence or power here for that.”

Mario’s eyes narrow slightly.

“But we know someone who does.”

My house is quiet.

The front hall is lit. The staff has been sent away except for the people I trust closest to the family. Julia is upstairs in my room. She showered for a long time, standing beneath the water until I gently guided her out.

I helped her into clean clothes and put her in my bed. Then I lay beside her until exhaustion finally dragged her under.

Even asleep, she looked tense. Curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Hair damp against the pillow, face pale, eyes swollen.

I stayed until her breathing evened out.

Then I came downstairs to my study.

Now the men are here.

Mario stands near the fireplace, still in the shirt and trousers from the gala, his tuxedo jacket long gone. Lorenzo is beside the bookshelves with a glass of water. Diego sits in one of the leather chairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Matteo is near the window. Tomasso beside him. Edoardo and Alessio stand closer to the door.

My brothers.

My nephews.

My son’s cousins.

Every one of them carrying the same things inside them because we're all built the same.

Rage.

Fear.

The need to move.

Dante is still at the hospital. Alive but sedated. Watched by our people unbeknownst to the hospital.

It is still not enough.

Nothing will be enough until Harrison Winthrop is on his knees.

“Harrison sent men into Julia’s apartment,” I start.

“We believe that, yes,” Mario says.

My son is in a hospital bed with a bullet wound through his body because Harrison Winthrop decided Julia was property he could retrieve. He sent men into her home. Into the one place she had made for herself after escaping him. Dante walked into that apartment instead of me and nearly died for it.

I look at Mario. “Luca Conti left us a message months ago.”

His expression changes almost imperceptibly.

“On Emilio Bellandi’s body,” I say.

Diego’s gaze lifts.

Lorenzo exhales once through his nose.