“Sophie—”

“We finish this as a family, or we run forever.”

He stared at her, admiration overcoming his anger.

He nodded once.

The summit was held in a twelfth-century courtyard, disguised as a gala. Crystal shimmered. Violins played. Beneath every silk suit was a weapon.

When Lorenzo entered with Sophie, the music seemed to fail.

She wore emerald silk, her hair up, her face a mask of resolve.

Enzo wore funeral black.

At the head sat Salvatore Bellomo. To his sides, Stefano and Don Carlo.

“You are bold to come here,” Salvatore noted.

“I came to correct a lie,” Enzo said.

Stefano smirked. “You came because you ran out of road.”

Enzo ignored him.

Rocco placed the DNA reports on the table.

“The child is mine,” Enzo stated, his voice echoing. “Biologically and legally. She is not Viti bl00d. She is my daughter.”

Don Carlo grabbed the paper.

His face shifted from anger to doubt.

“You told me she was mine,” he snarled at Stefano.

Stefano’s eyes narrowed. “Reports can be bought.”

“Yes,” Enzo agreed. “They can.”

Rocco druk op een knop.

The projection screen flickered to life.

A video played: Stefano in a garage, handing a briefcase to a federal agent.

The room gasped.

Stefano turned ashen.

Enzo looked at him with ice in his soul.

“You tried to remove my wife. You tried to erase my child. You pushed the merger so you could rule both sides while talking to the FBI.”

“That is fake,” Stefano barked.

Sophie stepped forward.

“No,” she said.

The room focused on her.

“You came to me three years ago. You showed me a b0mb. You said Enzo would d1e if I stayed. You forced me to disappear.”

Stefano lachte. “Een serveerster geeft ons de les over eer?”

‘Ik was verpleegster,’ zei Sophie. “Dan een voortvluchtige. Nu een moeder. En ik weet wat eer eigenlijk kost.”

Salvatore leaned in.

“You have proof?”

Sophie produced a flash drive.

“Stefano kept records. Payments. Messages. He hid them poorly because he thought fear was loyalty.”

Enzo looked at her, surprised by what she had salvaged during her years in hiding.

Rocco took the drive.

Silence reigned for minutes.

Toen knikte de man van Salvatore.

De ogen van Salvatore werden zwart.

“Stefano Romano,” he said. “You are declared without honor.”

The room exploded.

Stefano stood, sweat dripping.

“You think this ends with a vote?” he yelled.

His hand reached for his jacket.

Enzo lunged for Sophie.

Too late.

Stefano aimed at her.

“If I burn,” he screamed, “she burns first.”

The shot rang out.

Sophie braced for the end.

It never reached her.

Enzo had moved.

Hij rukte zich als rood op zijn witte shirt.

He stayed on his feet for one impossible second.

Sophie screamed.

Enzo raised his gun.

“You missed,” he rasped.

He fired.

Stefano hit the stones.

De:ad instantly.

Then Enzo collapsed.

Sophie caught him, sinking to the ground, her hands trying to stem the flow from his chest.

“No, no, no,” she wailed. “Stay with me. Lorenzo, look at me.”

His eyes drifted.

“Did we win?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she lied. “Stay awake.”

His bl00dy hand touched her cheek.

“Tell Mia,” he exhaled, “I bought the cake.”

Then he went dark.

The room in Palermo smelled of lemon and antiseptic.

For three days, Sophie listened to the rhythm of the monitor.

The bullet had missed his heart by three millimeters.

The width of a wedding ring.

Mia stayed with Rocco, coloring and asking when “Enzo Daddy” would wake up.

On the fourth day, he did.

No drama. Just a stubborn refusal to go.

He found Sophie.

“Sophie,” he rasped.

“I’m here.”

“Did I d1e?”

“Not yet.”

He smirked.

“Mia?”

“With Rocco. Asking for her dad.”

A tear tracked through the stubble on his face.

“Dad,” he whispered. “I like that.”

Sophie held his hand.

“The Commission purged Stefano’s crew. The Vitis retreated. Bianca is in Paris. You won.”

Enzo looked up.

“I don’t want the North,” he said. “Or the South.”

“You own them.”

“I don’t care.”

She touched his hair.

“What do you want?”

“The girl,” he whispered. “And her mother. Somewhere nobody has to fear their name.”

Six months later, the Sicilian sun warmed the lemon trees.

Sophie stood on the terrace with flour on her skin, wearing a white dress. The flour was from her own kitchen, a gift Enzo had built for her.

Below, Mia chased a puppy through the grass.

Lorenzo ran after her, slower, hand on his side.

But he was laughing.

The man who ruled Chicago was wearing a flower crown.

“Daddy, faster!” Mia yelled.

“I was shot, tiny tyrant,” Enzo called back.

“That was ages ago!”

“Six months!”

“Ages!”

Sophie laughed.

Enzo caught Mia, spinning her until she squealed. He whispered something and she ran inside.

He walked up the steps.