Page 22 of Last Hand

Her words hang in the air like smoke from a battlefield. I glance between them, trying to piece together what she means.

Vittorio’s lips part as if he’s about to respond, yet no words come out. Silence stretches between them once more—a silence so heavy it feels like it could crush us all.

She exhales sharply through her nose, breaking the quiet with a frustrated shake of her head.

“Calm down, Mama, go sit down before you hurt yourself,” Leone waves his mother off. “I don’t need him to fight my battles, I’ll get them back, I just came?—”

“Came for what, Leone?” his father demands, and if looks could kill, his father would be six feet under already with the glare Leone cuts his way.

“We’re bringing Fallon home. With or without your blessing. I’m only here to warn you of what is happening, so either help us, step aside, or…”

“Or what?” Vittorio snaps again, his voice rising with anger now. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands abruptly, towering over Leone.

Leone doesn’t flinch. Instead, he rises from his chair and steps even closer until they’re nearly nose-to-nose, and only Vittorio is forced to look up at his son, who has a good foot and a half on him. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that chills me, and I realize Leone would truly kill his father for her. For all the talk and the way he treated her, he truly does love Fallon and not just because she is carrying his baby.

“You don’t want the answer to that, Papa.” His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Nobody crosses a Pressutti, you taught me that… even blood.”

For a moment, Vittorio stares at him like he doesn’t recognize his own son anymore. Then, slowly—reluctantly, he nods.

“I’ll reach out to the ones who still owe me,” he says gruffly, his voice low and begrudging. His gaze shifts away from him as though he can no longer bear to meet his eyes. “If Romanov has built a network here… we’ll find it.”

“And Dante?”

Vittorio hesitates—a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he responds. “We don’t know for sure whether?—”

“We know,” Leone interrupts harshly, taking a step forward now. His tone carries an edge that borders on contempt. “We have video proof from the mansion.”

“Dante could be a victim in this for all we know!” Vittorio fires back quickly, defending his other son with an almost desperate fervor.

Leone scoffs loudly—a bitter sound filled with years of resentment boiling over at last. “Always so quick to take his side, Father.” He shakes his head in disbelief before leveling Vittorio with a glare so fierce it could cut steel. “He isn’t getting out of this either way,” Leone continues, his voice dropping dangerously low now. “You’ll be burying a son. So it’s time to choose, Father.” His jaw tightens as he takes another step closer to Vittorio. “Am I killing my brother… or am I killing a bloodline?”

My breath catches in my throat at Leone’s words—at the cold finality in them—and my eyes dart instinctively toward Gina. She stands off to the side near the window, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor as though willing herself invisible. She knows better than to get involved when Vittorio and Leone clash like this; everyone around them gets hurt when their tempers ignite.

Vittorio slams his fist down onto the table suddenly, making me jump. “He knows better!” he roars, his voice shaking with fury—and something else I can’t quite place: Fear? Regret? Maybe both. “I taught him better! If he really is working with the Romanovs…” He trails off for a moment before slamming his fist down again, even harder this time. “…he’s as good as dead already! Stupid little shit!”

“What do you mean?” Leone asks, and his mother laughs, making everyone’s eyes go back to her. She smirks, looking at her husband. Vittorio glares at her and she holds his gaze unflinching.

“Go on…” Gina sneers mockingly, gesturing toward him with one hand as if inviting him to speak up. Her lips curve into a cruel smile that doesn’t reach her eyes—eyes filled with decades’ worth of bitterness. “Tell him about the war you started… and never had the guts to finish.”

SIX

Leone

“Shut up, Gina. This has nothing to do with that!” my father snaps.

I glance at my mother instinctively, searching for some kind of reaction—anything to break the suffocating tension. Her lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line as she glares at him from across the room. Her eyes burn with a fury that feels volcanic, and though she doesn’t speak, the weight of her unspoken words practically sears through the air.

I lean forward slightly, my elbows resting on my knees, trying to piece together this fractured moment. My pulse quickens. “Exactly what were you both fighting about?” I ask slowly, carefully enunciating each word and gauging my father’s reaction.

My father’s jaw tightens, the muscles ticking beneath his skin as he stares hard at the fireplace. The flames reflect in his dark eyes, shadows dancing across his face like ghosts of whatever secrets he’s been hiding. He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches unbearably thin.

I press further, my voice rising slightly with frustration. “I want the truth,” I demand, sitting up straighter now.

“Nobody wants the truth, Son. They want to win, I won, that is the end of that story!” my father states.

Winning. That’s all it ever is to him. A game, a conquest, a tally mark on some invisible scoreboard only he can see. “The end of the story? Not by a fucking long shot. Or is there something more you’re not telling me, something that has Mom looking like she wants to burn this whole damn house down with you in it?”

My gaze flicks back to my mother. Her silence is a weapon, and she wields it with precision. The fire in her eyes hasn’t dimmed; if anything, it’s intensified, focused entirely on my father.

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