The foyer was unchanged from the day I left for New York a month ago.
Only now, it was armed.
Soldiers stationed at every corner, rifles held at the ready, their eyes sharp and watchful. They stood so still, they might have passed for statues, if not for the tension radiating off of them.
I ignored them as though they were part of the architecture and crossed the marble floor toward the grand staircase. My heels echoed as I ascended, each step carrying me closer to my grandfather's private quarters.
Arturo didn't look back.
Camilla didn't have to.
I could feel her glare between my shoulder blades, hot and venomous. She hated me for what I had done. I didn't know how much she had been told, or whether she had uncovered the truth about her memory loss. But if she knew even an inkling of the role I played in the chain of events that almost destroyed her family, I'd hate me too.
We stopped just outside my grandfather's suite, and that was when I saw it.
The portrait of my father.
My hands curled into fists at my sides ad I took him in. He looked young and composed, devastatingly handsome. Regal in the way only the heir to an empire could be. Every inch the son my grandfather had molded to inherit both a criminal dynasty and a corporate throne.
For a moment, the hallway faded.
Seeing him was like a reminder to him.
Why I started this. Why I couldn't turn back now.
My grandfather's reign had last too long, and it needed to end.
The door clicked open, pulling me back to the present.
Arturo stepped inside without hesitation, without a single glance over his shoulder. He didn't check to see if I followed. Didn't seem remotely concerned that I might pull a weapon and put a bullet in his back.
Why would he be?
He had fortified this place like a citadel. The guards outside were only the visible layer. I knew better than to assume that was all. Though there were more stationed near my grandfather's quarters, I knew there were even more concealed in alcoves, behind these walls, positioned on balconies with clear lines of fire.
A cold barrel pressed against the middle of my back.
"Move," Camilla snapped.
I turned my head just enough to meet her eyes, unimpressed.
Then I stepped forward and crossed the threshold on my own terms.
"Arturo, I told you all these men are unnecessary," my grandfather said in Italian. His voice was gravelly, strained, as if speaking required effort. "I don't need this kind of protection."
My steps faltered.
I had prepared myself for many things. Hearing his voice again was not one of them.
"You know it's necessary, Lorenzo," Arturo replied evenly, also in Italian. "Don't be stubborn."
A brittle silence followed.
"I am old," my grandfather said at last. "If it is my time, then it is my time."
The words landed heavier than any threat.
"Nonno."
The room stilled.
They all turned toward me.
My grandfather looked up first. His eyes were tired, dimmed by age and illness, but there was something else there too. Hurt.
Arturo's gaze followed.
His held no softness, only contempt.
"I would like to speak to my granddaughter alone," he said.
There was no volume in his tone, yet the command carried.
"Lorenzo—" Arturo began.
My grandfather lifted a frail but steady hand, silencing him.
"Please," he said, though it did not sound like a plea. "Surely I do not have to beg for a private word with my own family."
The air tightened.
Arturo's jaw flexed, the muscle ticking in his cheek as he swallowed the argument he had prepared. "...Fine."
Arturo gave a curt nod, then gesture toward the door. He didn't even bother to look at me again. So I remained expressionless and stoic, standing there. Camilla hesitated a fraction of a second longer than the others. I could feel her gaze lingering behind my back, sharp and suspicious, before she finally turned and followed her father out.
One by one, the guards withdrew.
Their boots thudded softly against the carpet. The quiet murmur of radios faded into the corridor. I waited until I heard the door clicked shut.
The sound was soft.
Final.
"I was surprised you would come, Isolda."
He spoke in English, his voice thin but controlled, threading easily through the steady rhythm of the monitors. The mechanical beeping filling the silence between us. Precise, different.
"Are you here to finally end this?" he continued calmly. "To take your revenge on your weak, dying grandfather?"
The word dying sounded almost amused.
He didn't turn as I approached.
He sat beside the bed instead of in it, as if refusing to surrender to it completely. A blanket lay across his lap, oxygen tubing tracing the sharp lines of his face. Age had hollowed him out, but it had not softened him.
His gaze remained fixed on the tall windows overlooking the estate. The olive trees bending to the Sicilian wind, the land he had ruled longer than I had been alive.
For the first time, he looked smaller against it.
But not harmless, never harmless.
"Would you believe me if I said I was worried?" I asked.
I moved closer, heels muted by the carpet, each step deliberate. Like approaching a wounded lion that still remembered how to kill.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I would believe you are many things," he said. "Worried is not one of them."
Then, finally, he turned.
Even diminished by illness, his eyes were still sharp and assessing. Calculating. The same eyes that had ordered executions over dinner.
"I would not blame you if you wished to kill me, granddaughter," he continued. "I have lived long enough. Ruled long enough. My bones are brittle. I am tired of endless strategy."
His gaze hardened as he switched to Italian.
"But do not mistake my fatigue for regret. I did what was necessary to preserve this empire." A pause. "Even when sacrifices were required."
The machines continued their steady beeping.
"That's what you call it?" I demanded, stepping closer. "Murdering my parents, a 'sacrifice'? Your own son. My child." My voice tightened despite myself. "You forced an abortion on me, without my knowledge."
He didn't even flinch.
"I am proud of you for taking over New York," he said evenly, as if I had commented on the weather instead of accusing him of blood. "I always knew you were capable of it."
The audacity of it made my vision blur. I wanted to end him, right then and there. But I held on.
"I would have handed you everything," he continued. "The empire. The seat. All of it. Today, even. If you hadn't chosen to spread your legs for that Russian scum."
The words were deliberate. Designed to wound.
"Such pretty sentiments," I said coldly. "For a granddaughter you claim to love."
He watched me then. Not offended, not even enraged. Simply, measuring.
Then a slow breath left him. "You misunderstand something, Isolda."
He adjusted the blanket over his lap, the movement light, controlled. Like a king settling into his throne. "You believe taking New York means you have won." His eyes sharpened. "You have taken territory. You have not taken legitimacy."
My jaw tightened.
"You will never have everything," he continued calmly. "Not the loyalty of the old guard. Not the Ricci name in full. Not the blessing that makes rulers unquestioned instead of merely feared."
His gaze flicked toward the door.
"As of this moment, you are no longer blood. You are considered an enemy of this family."
The word settled between us like a blade.
"This visit," he went on, "was a courtesy. A final indulgence afforded to my granddaughter."
The monitors kept their steady rhythm. Beep. Beep. Beep.
His eyes locked onto mine fully now. Those icy blues, cold and lucid, terrifyingly alive.
"But the moment you step off this estate..." A faint pause. "It will no longer be personal."
It already was. Always had been.
"It will be war."
Silence swallowed the room.
There were no raised voice, no dramatics. Just inevitability.
I held his stare for a long second, committing the look to memory. The old lion, bones brittle, teeth still sharp.
Then I turned.
The door felt heavier than before.
And when it clicked shut behind me, it sounded less like an exit and more like the first shot fired.