Page 68 of Shattered Engagement

“Stick to the plan,” I reply. “On my signal.”

I turn to Isadora, taking in her fierce beauty in the dim emergency lighting. The bruise on her cheek has faded to a yellowish shadow, and beneath her black tactical gear, I know fresh bandages cover the almost healed wound on her side. She should be recovering, not infiltrating a mafia summit. But no force on earth could’ve kept her away, not even me.

“Last chance to change your mind,principessa.”I brush my lips against her temple, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. “No one would blame you for sitting this out.”

Her eyes flash with familiar defiance. “I’m done sitting out my own life,” she whispers. “Tonight, we end this. Together.”

She rises on her toes to claim my mouth in a kiss that tastes of danger and determination. Her tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, a reminder of what we’re fighting for. My hand snakes to her waist, careful of her injury even as desire courses through me. When she pulls back, I see it mirrored in her dilated pupils—the same desperate hunger that’s been consuming me since that first night in the club.

“For luck,” she says against my lips, then pulls her weapon from its holster. “Let’s go make history.”

We move silently through the service corridor toward the grand hall where the three families have gathered. The hunting lodge—a neutral meeting ground for generations of mafia negotiations—feels like an appropriate stage for tonight’s reckoning. Marble floors that will soon know blood. Antique tables that have witnessed a century of criminal dealings. And now, the final act of a tragedy twenty years in the making.

I position myself behind the service entrance, Isadora flanking me. Through the crack in the door, I can see them all—the architects of my revenge and Isadora’s captivity, gathered like Roman senators on the Ides of March.

Antonio De Angelis, Isadora’s father, sits stiffly across from Marco Ricci. At the head of the massive oak table sits Luca, preening in his new power. And beside him, diminished but still radiating malevolence, is the man who fathered me.

Isadora’s breath catches as she spots her father. I squeeze her hand once, a silent promise. Whatever happens next, we face it together.

“Now,” I whisper into my comm, and the room plunges into darkness as Vittorio cuts the main power.

In the confusion of shouts and overturned chairs, we make our move. The emergency generators kick in seconds later, bathing the hall in dim red light that turns every shadow into a potential threat. My men have already neutralized the guards at the perimeter, and now they stream in through the main entrances, weapons raised.

The air in the room is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, cigars, and something darker—fear. Giancarlo sits beside his son at the head of the long oak table, flanked by his second in command, lieutenants and loyalists, Luca to his right, Suzette to his left. I can feel Isadora's presence behind me, her gaze steady, giving me strength.

This is it. No more games. No more lies.

I step into the meeting hall, Isadora moving in perfect sync beside me.

“Gentlemen,” I call out, my voice carrying across the sudden silence. “I believe this meeting is missing a key party.”

Every head turns toward us. I see the shock register on the faces around the table as they recognize me—Alessio Gravano, the enforcer who vanished with the De Angelis girl. But it’s Giancarlo’s reaction I’m watching for. The old man’s eyes widen slightly, and I see uncertainty flicker in those amber depths, so similar to my own.

Antonio calls out to Isadora, “What do you think you are doing?” He stutters angrily. “Did this bastard make you do this?”

“No, Papa, you will soon find out the truth.”

“Impossible,” Giancarlo whispers, the word escaping before he can trap it. “Luca said you ran to Canada.”

“Did I?” I move closer, keeping Isadora at my side as my men secure the room. “Nothing’s impossible when you’ve spent twenty years planning, Father.”

The word drops like a bomb in the silent hall. Antonio De Angelis half-rises from his chair, his gaze darting between me and his daughter.

“Isadora,” he manages, his voice breaking. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The truth, Father,” she replies, her voice steady despite the tension radiating through her body. “Something our families have been short on for decades.”

I step forward, feeling decades of rage and purpose crystallize into this single moment.

“My name is not Alessio Gravano,” I announce, my voice carrying to every corner of the room. “I am Stefano Calviño, firstborn son of Giancarlo Calviño and Sophia Mancini. The son this man ordered murdered alongside his mother more than thirty years ago.”

Chaos erupts around the table. Marco Ricci’s men draw weapons. De Angelis’scaposlook to their boss for direction. And Luca—my half-brother—rises slowly, his face contorted with rage.

“This is absurd,” he spits, lying to protect himself and his inheritance. “My father’s son died in a fire. Everyone knows this.”

“A convenient story,” I agree, circling the table like a predator. Isadora moves with me, covering my blind spots as if we’ve been fighting together for years instead of days. “A house fire that destroyed all evidence. No identifiable remains. Just a grieving widower who remarried with suspicious speed.”

I nod to Vittorio, who projects images onto the wall—crime scene photos, financial records, death certificates. The evidence I’ve spent two decades collecting.

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