"Adriana, don't start." Dante didn't even hesitate. His tone hardened instantly, the warmth from moments ago vanishing without a trace. "She's my courier. If someone disrespects her and I do nothing, what do you think that says about me in front of the Family?"

I said nothing.

He continued, his voice edged with irritation now. "You're a Falcone. You don't have to deal with this kind of crap. But she's not you."

It had been a simple question. Nothing more than that.

And yet, somehow, it had still managed to provoke him.

I fell silent, letting the words settle between us like something heavy and unspoken.

Even so, the tension lingered. He was still annoyed.

After a moment, he spoke again, more curt this time. "Take me to the club. I've got business to finish."

I glanced at him through the mirror once more.

There had been a time when I would have worried. I would have told him to go home, to rest, to stop pushing himself so hard. I would have reached for him, tried to bridge the distance.

But now, those words felt foreign, as if they no longer belonged to me. They rose to my throat, only to dissolve before they could be spoken.

Without another word, I made a U-turn and headed toward the social club.

The drive passed in silence.

When we arrived, I pulled over smoothly beneath the faded awning. Dante opened the door, stepping out without hesitation. Before closing it, he said what he always did, his tone automatic, almost rehearsed.

"Thanks for tonight."

The same words. Every time.

Then the door slammed shut.

He walked away without looking back, his figure disappearing through the unmarked side entrance as if I were no longer part of his world the moment he stepped out of the car.

I sat there for a moment longer, staring ahead.

It wasn't until I shifted to put the car in gear that I noticed it.

His phone.

Left behind on the seat.

I picked up Dante's phone from the seat, the screen still faintly warm from his touch, and headed upstairs to his office in the social club. The building was quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that made every footstep echo off marble floors that had been paid for with laundered money. The elevator ride felt longer than usual, each passing second stretching thin with something heavy pressing against my chest.

Before I even reached the door, voices slipped through the crack. Soft, intimate, unmistakable.

Liliana.