"Your daughter is alive," Kyle said aloud this time, his voice steady and clear. "Not the double you have walking around this mansion. Your actual daughter. Angelica."
The words hung in the air between them like a live wire.
Marcello stared at him, his expression frozen for a moment before something shifted. His eyebrow raised, skepticism flooding his features. Then he chuckled—a low, disbelieving sound that started in his chest and rumbled out into the quiet room.
"My daughter," Marcello repeated, shaking his head slowly. For a second—just a second—Kyle had seen belief flicker in his eyes. Hope, raw and desperate, had cracked through the Don's armor. But then reality reasserted itself, and Marcello's face hardened.
"No. There's no way. If Angelica were alive, I would have known. I would have felt it. I would have found her."
He set the golden gun on the table between them, his movements deliberate, controlled.
