The knock on the penthouse door came just after two in the morning.
Elena jolted awake on the couch, still curled against Luca's side. His arm tightened around her for half a second before he relaxed again, like even in sleep he remembered she was safe with him. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, while he stood and went to answer.
Dante stepped inside, looking as tired as the rest of them. Behind him, Gianni walked in with his hands cuffed in front of him, face pale under the bruises already forming on his jaw. Sofia followed last, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes flicking everywhere but at her brother.
"Found him trying to slip out the back service gate," Dante said flatly. "Had a bag packed. Passport too."
Gianni shot Elena a look that was half-defiant, half-pleading. "This is bullshit. You're letting Morettis cuff family now?"
Luca didn't raise his voice. He just closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded. "Sit."
Gianni sat. Reluctantly.
Elena stayed on the couch, knees drawn up, watching her cousin like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face. The note from her father's desk lay on the coffee table between them all, the words staring up like an accusation.
Luca didn't waste time. "Start talking. The dock. The note. The gun you used on Vincenzo Rossi."
"I didn't kill him," Gianni snapped. His hands shook in the cuffs. "I swear on my mother's grave, Elena. I wanted him out of the way, yeah—business decisions, not blood. But I didn't pull any trigger."
Sofia made a small sound, almost a laugh, but it came out bitter. She dropped into the armchair across from Gianni, legs tucked under her like she used to do when they were kids sneaking cookies at midnight.
"You always were a terrible liar," she said quietly.
Everyone looked at her.
Sofia's fingers twisted in the hem of her hoodie. She didn't meet anyone's eyes at first. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, the way it got when she was thirteen and confessing she'd broken her mother's favorite vase.
"I knew about the gun," she admitted.
The room went dead quiet.
Luca's head snapped toward his sister. "What?"
Sofia swallowed hard. "Five years ago. The night you left, Luca. I was there—in the warehouse shadows. I saw Dad's men take your Glock after they beat you. I was supposed to stay hidden, but I followed them. They gave it to someone. A Rossi. I didn't know who at the time. I was too scared to say anything. Dad said if I ever talked, he'd send me away like he did you."
Elena felt the floor tilt under her. "A Rossi? Who?"
Sofia finally looked up. Her eyes were shiny, but she didn't cry. "I didn't get a name. Just heard the guy say, 'This will make sure the wolf never bites the princess again.' Then later… after Luca was gone, I started digging on my own. Quietly. I found out it was your uncle's fixer—old Tony. But Tony died six months later. Heart attack. Convenient, right?"
Gianni shifted in his seat, looking smaller. "I didn't know about the gun. I swear. But… I did meet someone at the old dock two weeks ago. A guy who said he could help me take over the Rossi side without a war. He offered money. Power. Said once the Morettis and Rossis tore each other apart, the real players would move in clean."
Luca's jaw clenched so tight Elena heard it click. "And you believed him."
"I was tired of being second," Gianni muttered. "Tired of watching Uncle Vincenzo hand everything to Elena just because she was the perfect daughter. I wanted my share. But I never wanted him dead. Not like that."
Elena stood up slowly. Her legs felt shaky, but she walked over until she was right in front of her cousin. She looked down at him—the boy who used to push her on the swing in the garden, the man who now smelled like fear and cheap cologne.
"You were going to sell us out," she said. Not yelling. Just tired. "For what? A bigger chair at the table?"
Gianni wouldn't meet her eyes.
Luca moved then, coming to stand beside her. His hand brushed the small of her back—light, steady. Not claiming. Just there.
Sofia spoke again, softer this time. "There's more. I've been keeping tabs on the Albanians and that Miami crew. They're not the ones behind this. This feels… older. Personal. Like someone who hated both our fathers for what they did back in the nineties."
Luca frowned. "The nineties?"
Sofia nodded. "Dad used to tell me stories when he was drunk. How he and Vincenzo Rossi were almost friends once. Until a deal went bad. A woman got caught in the middle. Someone's daughter. She died. Both families blamed each other and it started the whole blood feud. I think… whoever kept your gun might be connected to that old grudge. A child who grew up without a parent. Someone who wants both empires to burn for what they lost."
The words landed heavy.
Elena sank back onto the couch, mind spinning. She remembered her father's old photo albums—faded pictures of him young and smiling with a man who looked a lot like Luca's father. Then the albums stopped. Pages ripped out. Questions never answered.
Luca sat down beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. He stared at the floor for a long moment, then started talking like the words had been waiting years to come out.
"I was eight the first time I saw real blood," he said quietly. "My father took me to a meeting. Said it was time I learned what it meant to be a Moretti. There was an argument. A guy pulled a knife. Dad shot him right in front of me. I remember the sound—louder than I thought it would be. The way the man's eyes went wide, then empty. Dad wiped the blood off my cheek with his handkerchief and told me, 'Never look away, son. Looking away gets you killed.'"
He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking younger. "After that, I tried so hard to be what he wanted. Tough. Cold. But then I met you, Elena. You were twelve, sneaking into our garden looking for your lost cat. You smiled at me like I wasn't already broken. And for a while I believed maybe I could be something else. Someone who didn't have to choose between family and… whatever this is between us."
His voice dropped even lower. "When I left, I told myself I was protecting you. But part of me was also running from the kid who watched a man die and did nothing. I thought if I stayed away long enough, I could come back different. Better. Instead I just came back colder. And now I'm dragging you into the same darkness I tried to save you from."
Elena reached over and took his hand. Their fingers laced together without hesitation this time. His palm was warm, a little sweaty, real.
"I'm not a kid anymore," she said softly. "I watched my father bleed out on his own desk. I'm already in the dark, Luca. But maybe… maybe we can find a way to make our own light. Even if it's small."
Sofia watched them, something soft and sad in her eyes. "I have a motive too, you know. I've been feeding small bits of info to both sides for years. Not to hurt anyone—just to keep the peace. To stop another war like the one that took our mothers. But I screwed up. I should've told you about the gun sooner, Luca. I was scared. Still am."
Gianni stayed silent, head down.
Luca squeezed Elena's hand once, then stood. "We're not killing anyone tonight. Gianni stays locked down. Sofia—you're going to give Dante every contact you've been hiding. Tomorrow we start digging into that old nineties grudge. Names. Survivors. Anyone who might want both families dead."
He looked down at Elena, eyes tired but steady. "You should get some sleep. Real sleep. I'll take the couch."
She stood too, still holding his hand. "No. Stay with me. Not for the deal. Just… because I don't want to be alone with all these ghosts tonight."
He searched her face for a long second, then nodded.
As they walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, Sofia's quiet voice followed them.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For all of it."
Elena didn't answer. She was too busy listening to the steady rhythm of Luca's breathing beside her, wondering how many more buried truths they'd have to dig up before they could finally breathe easy.
But for tonight, his hand in hers felt like enough.