The rain had dried to a thin mist by the time Adair slipped from Dominic's safehouse. The city still hummed with unease—gang banners burned on street corners, whispers of war clinging to every alley. But her mind was on only one thing: the truth her father had buried, the kind of truth no one wanted her to find.
She pulled her hood tighter and walked fast, heart pounding with every step.
Victor Moretti had left behind a trail of enemies, but there were also those who had lived long enough to remember what he really was before the legend, before the fear. One of them was Alessandro Greco—a former consigliere turned recluse, a man whispered to have known Victor better than anyone alive.
If anyone could tell her what the Moretti blood truly meant, it was him.
The building she entered sagged with age, windows shattered, graffiti carved into its bones. The apartment number she had been given was scrawled in fading paint on the door. She hesitated only once before knocking.
The door creaked open. A man in his late sixties stood there, eyes sharp despite the tremor in his hands. His face was worn, scarred, and when he saw her, his mouth twisted into something between shock and disgust.
"You've got his eyes," Alessandro rasped. "God help you."
Adair swallowed hard. "I'm not my father."
His laugh was bitter. "That's what they all say."
Still, he let her in. The room smelled of smoke and whiskey, littered with old photographs and papers yellowed with age. On the wall hung a picture of Victor—young, fierce, smiling in a way Adair had never seen.
Her chest tightened.
"I came here for answers," she said, forcing her voice to steady. "I want to know what he was before the bloodshed. Why everyone looks at me like I carry his sins."
Alessandro studied her for a long time, then sat heavily in a worn chair. "Victor Moretti wasn't just a criminal, ragazza. He built an empire out of loyalty and fear. But before that—he was a boy who swore he'd never be powerless again. The world broke him, and he made sure it would never break him twice. That's the blood you carry. The hunger. The ruthlessness."
Adair clenched her fists. "Then maybe I can rewrite it."
The old man's gaze sharpened, almost pitying. "Rewrite? Or repeat? That's the question."
The words sank into her bones like ice.
Before she could answer, the sound of footsteps thundered in the hall. The door slammed open—Dominic, rain still clinging to his coat, fury etched into every line of his face. His eyes locked on her first, then on Alessandro.
"Adair." His voice was low, dangerous. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Her breath caught.
"I needed to know," she whispered.
Dominic's jaw tightened. "And if this man sold you out the second you walked in? Do you have any idea the target you've just painted on your back?"
Alessandro raised his hands, amused despite the tension. "Still the Wolfe guarding the lamb, I see. Careful, boy. Lambs grow teeth."
Adair's pulse raced. She wasn't sure if it was from fear, defiance, or the way Dominic's anger burned with something deeper—something dangerously close to care.
She lifted her chin, meeting Dominic's eyes. "I'm not hiding anymore. If this war is coming for me, I'm going to meet it head-on. With or without you."
Silence fell heavy in the room, only broken by the distant crack of thunder.
Dominic's stare lingered on her—equal parts frustration, fear, and something softer he refused to name.
And Alessandro, watching them both, smiled like a man who'd just witnessed the first spark of a fire he knew could burn down empires.