Page 83 of Last Hand

“You bled for power and at the cost of your family.”

“Oh, save it,” Dante snaps. “You were born the golden one. You think I didn’t see how Papa looked at you? How every time he said ‘legacy,’ he meantyou? Never me. Never, not once.”

“You earned that,” I growl, stepping forward. “Every time you lied, every time you took a shortcut, every time you acted like the family was a burden and not a privilege.”

“That family you’re so proud of?” He laughs again, harsh and bitter. “You mean the one that would crumble without you? You think any of them would lift a finger for me now? I gave Mikhail information, sure. I didn’t put the gun in his hand. Papa did, when he took Mama. You did when you killed Lydia. I just helped him by showing him where to fucking aim.”

I clench my jaw. He’s trying to bait me. It almost works.

“You’re wrong,” I say quietly. “You didn’t just hand over intel. You made sure Fallon was vulnerable. You made sure she’d be alone, and killed my men knowing exactly what Mikhail planned.”

Dante shrugs. “It was just leverage. I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. You were supposed to betray Santos, start a war, and he’d hand her back and I would be free to run the strip when Papa realized you’d choose her over everyone.”

“She was pregnant.”

He blinks. The smallest flicker of something flashes across his face. Then it’s gone.

“Well. That’s unfortunate.”

I take another step toward him. “She could’ve died.”

“She didn’t,” he snaps. “She’s still breathing, isn’t she? You got her back. Everyone’s so damnlucky.”

That word again.

I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You think I can’t kill you because of Papa, don’t you?”

Dante leans back in the chair, as much as the chains allow. “You can’t. He’ll never forgive you. Killing your own brother? That’s a line evenyouwon’t cross.”

“Funny,” I murmur, “because he said the same thing about betraying your blood.”

Dante goes still.

I knock on the door twice, and a moment later, it opens behind me.

My mother steps inside.

Dante’s breath catches. “Mama?”

She looks so small. She’s wearing one of her black dresses, her rosary twisted tight in her fingers. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying. She hasn’t said a word yet, so I can tell how much this is killing her.

Dante tries to play it off. “They dragged you into this? Jesus. Tell him, Mama. Tell him this is insane.”

She just stares at him.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he says, his voice higher now. “I didn’t know what Mikhail would do. He was supposed to scare them. That’s all. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Still, she doesn’t speak.

“You’re not seriously going along with this,” Dante says. “Mama. Please. Get Papa. He’ll stop this. He won’t let Leone kill his own son.”

Finally, my mother moves forward. Slowly. Like every step costs her something, and I have no doubt that it does.

She kneels in front of him. Reaches out. Brushes his hair back from his forehead the way she used to when we were boys. Dante leans into her touch.

She presses her forehead to his.

Then she whispers, “I love you. But I won’t protect you from what you’ve done.”

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