I read it twice.

My grandfather had created Moretti Holdings decades earlier.

Control passed to his eldest surviving son.

Then to that son’s eldest surviving child.

Me.

But if that child produced lawful biological descendants before age forty, a separate branch trust activated.

Fifty-one percent of the family’s legitimate holdings would eventually pass equally to those descendants.

My sons.

Meaning Matteo could never control the company through me.

Not permanently.

Unless I died without acknowledged children.

My stomach turned.

“You knew Elena was pregnant.”

Matteo said nothing.

“You knew before my mother did.”

Silence.

Sloane nodded.

“He found out through the family doctor.”

My mother turned toward him.

“Matteo?”

His eyes moved to her.

Something changed in his expression.

The mask finally came off.

“You always were sentimental, Francesca.”

She looked devastated.

“You told me she had ended the pregnancy.”

He shrugged.

“I told you what you needed to hear.”

Rage exploded through me.

I crossed the room.

My fist hit his jaw before anyone could move.

He crashed into a table.

Glasses shattered.

My mother screamed my name.

I grabbed Matteo by his shirt.

“You threatened her.”

His lip bled.

He smiled.

“You think threatening one frightened girl was difficult?”

I hit him again.

Sloane shouted, “Dominic!”

I raised my fist.

Then stopped.

Four faces flashed through my mind.

Leo.

And the other boys whose names I didn’t even know.

Soccer.

Pancakes.

School plays.

A normal life.

Elena had spent six years protecting them from men who solved problems with violence.

And there I was, proving her right.

I released Matteo.

He fell against the broken table.

I stepped back.

“No.”

He wiped blood from his mouth.

“No?”

“I spent my whole life becoming exactly the man this family wanted.”

I looked around the conservatory.

At the candles.

The wealth.

The guards outside.

The ring still inside my pocket.

“I’m done.”

Matteo laughed.

“You don’t leave this family.”

I looked at him.

“Watch me.”

At 11:18 that night, I stood outside Elena’s apartment in Brookline.

No entourage.

No driver.

No weapon.

For the first time since I was twenty-one, I had come somewhere entirely alone.

Elena opened the door only after looking through the peephole.

“What are you doing here?”

“Telling you the truth.”

She almost closed the door.

“Elena.”

Something in my voice stopped her.

I told her everything.

My mother.

Matteo.

The trust.

The fabricated messages.

The plan involving Sloane.

The recordings.

When I finished, Elena leaned against the doorframe.

“You expect me to process this tonight?”

“No.”

“You expect me to forgive your family?”

“No.”

“You expect me to let you suddenly become their father?”

My chest tightened.

“No.”

That answer surprised her.

I looked past her.