Chapter 9
I spent the next week dismantling my inheritance.
Men called me traitor.
Coward.
Fool.
They had called Elena worse.
That made the choice easier.
I gave Agent Quinn everything.
Names of shell companies.
Judges who took gifts.
Politicians who owed favors.
Warehouses.
Routes.
Accounts.
Every piece of my father’s empire that had survived behind polished doors.
The old council collapsed faster than I expected.
Not because they lacked power.
Because they lacked loyalty.
Fear holds men together only until prison becomes more frightening.
Javier begged for a deal.
Victor blamed Russo.
Russo blamed my father.
The dead man could not defend himself.
For years, I had carried my father like a statue inside me.
Now I watched the stone crack.
Sofia found me in his old office.
“You don’t have to mourn the lie,” she said.
“He was still my father.”
“Yes,” she said. “And he still chose wrong.”
I looked at the portrait above the fireplace.
My father’s eyes were painted proud.
Cold.
Victorious.
“I almost sent Leo away,” I whispered.
“But you didn’t.”
“Because Elena saved him.”
Sofia sat beside me.
“And because he screamed.”
That broke me.
I covered my face.
My sister put her hand on my shoulder.
For the first time since Elena died, I cried without hiding it.
That night, Leo came to my room.
“Are we poor now?” he asked.
I laughed through the ache.
“No.”
“Are we still Mafia?”
The question cut deep.
I pulled back the blanket and let him climb in beside me.
“No,” I said. “We are a family.”
He thought about that.
“Can families be strong?”
“The strongest.”
He rested his head against my arm.
“Good. I don’t want to be scary.”
May you like
I kissed his hair.
“Neither do I.”
