Page 125 of The Cost of Silence

“We’re already unraveling,” I say. “They’re in my building. In my home. Next time it won’t be a rat. It’ll be a body. I won’t wait for that.”

Matteo is very quiet for a very long time. Finally: “Okay.”

The word is low, resigned, laced with a dark kind of relief. “Okay?” I repeat.

“We can’t half-do this,” he says. “We can’t be half clean and half the men who take care of problems. Papà tried to keep both worlds separate. It worked for a while. It’s not working now. So, we choose. We cut out the rot, even if it’s blood.” A pause. “But we don’t do it with just you and me in the dark.”

“I know.”

“We need Adi,” he says. “We need his brain in this. His caution. He’s the one who’ll see angles we miss. If we go to war with Domenico, it’s all three of us or none.”

“I’ll talk to him first thing,” I say. “We’ll lay it all out. No more half-truths. Then we plan. We invite Domenico to the table and see if he comes as family or as an enemy.”

“If he comes as an enemy,” Matteo says quietly, “I’ll pull the trigger myself.”

I close my eyes. “I won’t stop you,” I answer.

There’s a beat of shared understanding. Three kids in too-big suits standing in our father’s study, making promises we didn’t understand. Three men now, finally ready to cash in on them.

“Get some sleep, Nic,” Matteo says, softer. “You sound like shit.”

“Look in a mirror,” I mutter.

He snorts. “Love you, asshole.”

“Love you, too.”

The line goes dead.

I sit there for a moment, phone still in my hand, the office suddenly feeling too small, too full of ghosts. On the monitors, the hallway feed shows nothing but carpet and white walls and the edge of the Christmas wreath shadow on my door.

It looks peaceful.

It isn’t.

I set the phone down, touch the frame of my father’s photo one more time.

“We’ll do it right,” I tell him. “Your way. Smart. Clean as we can manage.” I glance toward the bedroom, thinking of the woman sleeping there, of the way she looked tonight when she saidI’m all in.“But I’m not losing her, Papà. I’m not. Whatever it takes.”

He doesn’t answer, but I feel less crazy for saying it.

On my way out, I pause at the tree.

The angel ornament catches the light, wings glinting, stupid and perfect. Isabella had it engraved with my father’s name. She said it was so he could be here with us in spirit.

She put it near the middle, not the top. “Because that’s the heart of family,” she’d said, bumping my shoulder with hers.

I flick off the office light and head back down the hallway.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft spill from the living room. Isabella has rolled toward my side in her sleep, like her body refuses to believe I’d be gone long.

Guilt punches through me, sharp and deep.

I strip off the hoodie and slide back into bed, careful, always careful, easing myself behind her. She makes a small sound when the mattress dips, then relaxes as soon as my arm comes around her, her spine fitting against my chest like we were cut to match.

I curl my body around hers, wrapping her up, anchoring us both.

My hand settles over her heart.