Page 124 of The Cost of Silence

We’ve been reacting. Guarding. Moving pieces defensively.

It isn’t enough.

I set the frame down and reach for my phone.

It’s late. Matteo should be home by now, or at least done terrorizing his bartenders.

He answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep or whiskey or both. “You better be dying, fratello.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say.

He sighs, and I hear rustling on the other end. “What’s on fire?”

“Nothing,” I say. “That’s the problem.”

“Start making sense.” Bed springs creak. “Is Isabella okay?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Good. Then why are you calling and why does your voice sound like you’ve decided to murder someone?”

“Because I have,” I say simply.

Matteo goes quiet.

I can practically see him sit up, eyes narrowing, brain clicking on.

“Who?”

“Orlov,” I say. “Eventually. But we start closer to home.”

A soft curse. “Domenico.”

The word hangs there like a knife between us.

“We keep talking about proof,” I say. “About evidence. About not moving until we’re sure. Meanwhile, he’s feeding Orlov access and intel. Using Isabella. Using us. Using Papà’s name.”

“We don’t know the exact extent of…”

“For fuck’s sake, Matty.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. I inhale, force it level. “We’ve got Oleg’s word. We’ve got the timing. We’ve got the language. ‘The uncle.’ ‘Protected at the top, the girl is fair game.’ Who else knows us like that? Who else hates that Papà went clean and took the money with him? Domenico has spent ten years smiling at us and sulking in the shadows. This is his chance. You know it. I know it.”

His exhale is long, rough. “I know.”

“I’m done waiting,” I say. “We’re not children anymore, hiding behind Papà’s decisions. This is our name now. Our company. Our family. If our uncle is putting targets on the people under our roof, then he’s not our uncle anymore. He’s a threat. And threats get handled.”

Silence.

When Matteo speaks again, his voice is cooler, the battle lines in it as familiar as my own reflection. “What are you suggesting?”

“We ask him to a meet,” I say. “Neutral ground. Somewhereours.We look him in the eye and give him one chance to tell us we’re wrong. To give us something that makes sense. And if he lies, if he plays games, if he tries to spin this like weowehim?”

I let the implication hang.

Matteo doesn’t flinch from it. “You want to pull the trigger on family,” he says.

“I want to stop letting family use that word as a shield while they aim at us,” I counter.

He mutters something under his breath, half Italian, half creative profanity. “You know, once we do this, there’s no going back. We pull at this thread and it could unravel everything Papà built. Old alliances, old enemies, people who’ve been waiting ten years for us to slip.”