Page 21 of Last Hand

Leone doesn’t answer immediately, instead staring at the coffee table between them. His hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening as he makes a fist. Finally, he peers up at his father—not as an equal, as a man teetering on the edge of desperation.

“Because he has my wife,” Leone says, the words scraping out of him like they’ve been dragged over broken glass.

“Consider yourself a widower. She is not worth a war with the Romanovs.”

The room goes silent—eerily so—as Leone slams his fist down onto the coffee table. The sound reverberates through the space like a gunshot, making everyone present flinch. EvenVittorio jumps slightly in his seat, caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

“She’s fucking pregnant.” Leone snarls.

For a moment, it feels like everything stops.

Vittorio freezes mid-motion, a glass halfway to his lips that never quite makes it there. Instead, he lowers it slowly back onto the table without taking a sip. His eyes are locked on Leone now—not with anger or disappointment, with something closer to disbelief.

Rocco gazes up from where he’s been leaning against the far wall, his expression unreadable save for the faint furrow in his brow. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. Everyone in the room is waiting for Vittorio’s reaction.

“You’re sure?” Vittorio asks finally, breaking the silence.

“Yes. Stevens,” Leone replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil roiling beneath the surface. “We found out just before she was taken.”

Vittorio reaches for his glass and takes a nervous sip and leans back in his chair. His expression doesn’t shift much—he’s always been good at masking what he feels— there’s a flicker in his eyes that gives him away. A ripple of something raw and unguarded passes through him before vanishing as quickly as it came.

The idea of an heir has always been Vittorio’s Achilles’ heel—the one thing capable of piercing through his armor of pragmatism and calculated indifference.

“You’re only just telling me this now?” Vittorio asks finally, though there’s no mistaking the accusation buried in those words.

Leone straightens slightly, though he doesn’t waver under his father’s scrutiny. “I had to be sure you weren’t involved,” he says evenly. Then, after a beat: “Or at least that you didn’t know.”

For a moment, Vittorio just stares at him, unblinking. Then he scoffs—a harsh sound that cuts through whatever tentative truce might’ve existed between them. “I’d rather die,” he spits, venom dripping from every syllable, “than stand beside a Romanov.”

He means it. I can tell. What I don’t understand is the anger he spat, saying those words.

“Then help us stop him,” Leone says. “Or you need to get out of the way so we can.”

“You think I’ll bless a war because she’s carrying your child?” Vittorio scoffs, voice low and sharp.

Whatever retort Leone might’ve had dies on his tongue when another voice cuts through from behind them.

“You’ll do it,” Gina says from the doorway.

All heads turn toward her.

Gina steps into the room with measured grace, her robe tied tighter around her waist now and her face scrubbed clean of any trace of makeup or pretense. It isn’t her appearance that holds everyone captive—it’s her eyes: blazing with fury yet glistening with unshed tears that reflect years of pain and betrayal.

“You’ll do it,” she repeats, her voice steady. Her gaze locks onto Vittorio like a predator sizing up its prey. “Because you owe me that much after everything.” She takes another step closer, her focus never wavering from her husband, even as she addresses the room at large. “You owe your son.”

Vittorio swallows thickly; even from across the room, I notice how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. Whatever Gina is talking about has him in a chokehold.

“None of this would’ve happened,” Gina continues relentlessly, her voice rising just enough to fill every corner of the room without ever tipping into hysteria, “if you hadn’t started a war you couldn’t finish.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Vittorio stares at her for a long moment—too long. His expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening as though he’s biting back an entire storm of words. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating, until I begin to wonder if he’ll say anything at all.

“You made this mess the day you took me from Paris,” she says, walking further into the room. “You dragged your family into the bloodline wars of men who were never going to forgive it.” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the room like a blade. “Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming.”

“This isn’t the same,” Vittorio snaps, his tone rising in defense. His fingers curl into fists, knuckles whitening as he leans forward in his chair.

“No,” she counters coldly, not missing a beat. Her eyes narrow as she takes another step closer to him, her presence commanding and unwavering. “This is worse because it’s more than our kid involved—it’s our Nipote, too. Three fucking generations!” Her voice cracks slightly on the last word, but she doesn’t falter. “You still haven’t learned a goddamn thing!”

---