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Luka’s jaw works once. “He wouldn’t say until you and Roman were both present.”

That earns a hard look from me. “Convenient.”

“Yes.”

The guest house sits beneath a canopy of old oaks, separated from the main house by enough distance to keep certain conversations contained. Today, armed men stand near the porch and along the rear path. No one speaks as Luka opens the door.

Inside, the air smells of coffee, leather, and fear.

Roman stands near the fireplace in a dark suit, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He doesn’t look impatient. Roman rarely does. His stillness has always been more threatening than another man’s rage.

Enzo sits at the dining table with two of Roman’s men behind him. He looks nothing like the smug bastard who once sat across from me in a private restaurant and spoke about Maggie like leverage. His shirt is wrinkled. His face is pale. The scar I gave him cuts across his cheek, red and uneven against his skin.

Enzo looks up when I enter. Fear flashes across his face before he manages to conceal it.

Good.

Roman’s eyes move from Enzo to me. “He asked for protection.”

“From me?”

Enzo swallows. “From her.”

The room goes very still.

I take the seat across from Enzo without taking my eyes off him. Luka remains near the door. Viktor stays by the wall. Roman does not move from the fireplace.

“Start talking,” I say.

Enzo stares at me for a beat, the last pieces of arrogance fighting to survive beneath whatever has finally frightened him more than I do.

Then he leans forward, his voice low and uneven. “Your wife lied to you.”

No one moves.

The words remain between us, deliberate and ugly.

Your wife lied to you.

Enzo watches me after he says them, as if he expects me to react like a grieving husband instead of the man sitting across from him. He expects anger. He expects denial. He expects the mention of my dead wife to give him power inside this room.

It doesn’t.

I lean back in the chair and let the silence stretch long enough for him to understand the mistake he’s made.

“Choose your next words carefully,” I warn him.

Enzo swallows. The movement pulls at the scar along his cheek, and for the first time since I met him, there’s no arrogance on his face. Only fear. It sits in the hollows beneath his eyes and in the sweat gathering at his temples.

“I didn’t mean Clara betrayed you,” he says quickly. “I mean she wasn’t who you thought she was.”

Roman finally moves, crossing the room with unhurried steps until he stands beside the table. He places a folder down in front of Enzo, but he doesn’t open it. “Then tell us who she was.”

Enzo looks from Roman to me and seems to realize there’s no way out of this room except through the truth. “Clara Bennett was never Clara Bennett.”

I think of the name on the marriage document, hospital forms, charity event invitations, and Ivy’s birth certificate. Clara Bennett Agapov. A name I had spoken without question for years because the woman who carried it had been mine. She told me Bennett was the name she chose when she left New York, a clean break from family expectations and a life built on control. I believed her because I loved her. Because I had wanted one part of my life untouched by suspicion.

Roman’s voice remains calm. “Her name.”