Page 121 of Accidental Alliance

He will stay where he can command and can preserve the myth of control, where he can make the next move, no matter which son comes home breathing.

That is who he is—a man who thinks mourning is best done after succession is secured.

Davide’s expression grows grim. “We will need to deal with him later, then.”

I nod, though I do not respond.

Later, if the estate still stands and Isabella survives. If Matteo remains sealed behind that panic room door, untouched by the hands of men who would turn his blood into leverage, and I am the one who comes back from facing my brother.

Whatever happens tonight will determine how my father responds in the aftermath. If I fall and Alessio survives, Vittorio will continue pushing until the Bianchi syndicate is swallowed completely. He will call me a traitor, convince himself I deserved the end I got in order to bury whatever grief my death leaves behind.

He will use my betrayal as proof that mercy creates weakness and that love can corrupt even his own son. It will give him enough ammunition that the family must become harder, crueler, and more unified beneath his hand.

But if Alessio falls first…

I do not know.

That uncertainty is almost worse. Alessio is his chosen heir, the son who has always stayed obedient. While unprompted, he had been the one willing to murder Amos Russo in order to expand the foundation of our empire.

That is the son my father has decided is worth protecting even at the cost of everything else.

If Alessio dies here, I do not know if my father will retreat, rage, or break completely.

Only time will tell.

I do not make it two steps before Isabella grabs my arm. Her fingers close around me with enough force to stop me dead in my tracks.

My lips part to speak—to tell her I know what I am doing, to offer some brittle assurance neither of us would believe—but she cuts me off before a single word can leave my mouth.

She hauls me down into a kiss.

In that moment, I forget the war and the monitors, the armed guards, the alarms, the sound of my family trying to tear the Bianchi stronghold apart from the outside in.

I forget the weapon waiting to be placed in my hand and the brother moving through smoke, the father commanding from a safehouse like God with dirt under his nails.

There is only Isabella.

Her mouth is fierce against mine, desperate and furious and shaking with everything she refuses to say in front of these men.

Her hand grips my arm while the other presses against my chest, right over the place where my heart is trying to break through to reach her warmth.

At first, I am too afraid that if I lift my hand and press it over hers, she will remember she hates me.

Then she makes a small sound against my mouth and it destroys whatever restraint I thought I still possessed.

I cup the back of her head and kiss her back. Her body presses close as my fingers slip through her hair.

I remember my apartment back in Italy, the way she looked at me when I whispered about a future I did not have the courage to protect filled with rings and nurseries, a house without soldiers at the gate.

A life away from the Contis and Russos.

Our life.

When she pulls back, it is not far. Her forehead rests against mine, her breath trembles against my mouth while her eyes jump between mine.

We stand there with our faces close enough to share air, surrounded by men who wisely pretend not to comment as the world fractures between us.

Then she whispers, “Be safe. And come back to us.”