Page 19 of Last Hand

“I didn’t,” he says, voice tight. “And this isn’t helping.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m beingemotional! She’s gone, Vittorio!” Her voice cracks. “And you’re already washing your hands of it. You’ve killed them both.”

“Enough!” I bark.

They both stop.

My mother turns, eyes wide. Her lips part like she forgot there were other people in the world and clearly she was not expecting visitors.

My father looks at me. Calm though he is bleeding from the cut on his head.

I walk farther into the kitchen and stop between them.

“My wife is missing,” I say evenly. “And you two are here smashing plates and screaming like a pair of spoiled kids.”

My mother’s face crumples. She opens her mouth, and I cut her off, pointing to the nearest dining chair.

“Sit. Now.”

She sinks into the seat, hands covering her face. Her shoulders tremble. I don’t know what she is crying about, and I need to find out if I want my father’s help.

Footsteps behind me.

Rocco and Milo enter. Rocco peers around like he just walked into a battlefield, which, by the smashed china, might as well be. His gaze lands on the blood running down my father’s temple.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, glancing at my mother briefly. “She did that?”

“Yes,” I say without looking back.

He staggers toward a chair, one hand on his abdomen in an attempt to not jostle his wound too much, and drops into it. Milo stands near the door, quiet, watching.

My father tosses the bloodied towel into the sink.

“Why are you here?” he says, staring at me.

“I came to ask for your help. Mikhail reached out to me.”

“And now you have the room. So ask before she throws something else at me.”

FIVE

Milo

Leone says nothing more after that.

None of us do.

The room is quiet for a few beats while Gina gets control of her emotions.

Across the room, Vittorio winces as he presses his fingertips gingerly to his forehead where the plate struck him. His lips curl into a grimace as he pulls his hand back and inspects it under the dim kitchen light. Blood glistens on his fingertips—a stark crimson against his pale skin. “Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, the curse sharp and cutting. He glances briefly at Gina, his expression unreadable, before turning back to assess the damage in the reflection of a nearby stainless-steel microwave.

Gina hiccups a shaky breath, one that sounds dangerously close to a sob she refuses to let out. Her composure is hanging by a thread—no, not even that. It’s hanging by a single frayed fiber of that thread, and everyone in the room knows it.

She’s still sitting where Leone told her to, trying to pull herself together, fingers curled tight in her lap like she is trying to hold herself back from lobbing more objects at her husband.

Rocco shifts uncomfortably in his seat, breaking the stillness with the soft creak of leather under his weight. His jaw is clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap, and beads of sweat have gathered along his hairline despite the cool air wafting through the house. He’s clearly in pain—his breathing labored and shallow—he’s too damn stubborn to admit it or ask for help. We shouldn’t have let him come tonight; we all knew he wasn’t ready after what happened last week. Rocco? He doesn’t back down from anything, not even when it’s for his own good.

Vittorio remains standing near the kitchen island, his posture deceptively relaxed with an edge that suggests he’s prepared for round two if Gina decides to launch another assault. His piercing gaze flickers toward her every so often—watchful, calculating—he doesn’t say a word. His hand lingers near the counter as though steadying himself or perhaps keeping himself from putting her in his place. He knows Leone would put a bullet in his head if he hurt her. Despite his sometimes strained relationship with his mother, he does love the woman.

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