The funeral was a farce.
Matteo stood under a black umbrella, rain hissing off the canopy like whispered accusations. The Caruso estate had burned in ash, its bones still warm when Dario had pronounced Isla one of the dead. Charred remains, a family ring, and silence — that's all they had been given.
That was all he had of her left.
He did not address the crowd during the ceremony. Not when there was platitudes from the priest. Not when mourners patted dry eyes and whispered theories. He'd only kept his eyes on the casket, which was closed — a prop, nothing more. He'd known Isla. Known her strength, her fire. If there had been a body to inter, he would have felt it in his soul. But there was nothing. Only the void her absence left in him.
In the weeks that followed, the Romano home turned into a war room.
Matteo sat in his private strategy room, at the end of a long table surrounded by screens, maps and dossiers. The lights were always low: he hated how bright they were. It felt dishonest.
Stories swirled of shifting allegiances, of smaller factions that had sniffed out the weakness, the void Isla's death left. Most of the Caruso family's survivors were scattered, most in hiding or presumed dead. Dario had disappeared entirely. The empire Isla was supposed to inherit had been hollowed out overnight, and Matteo… he'd turned into something colder in its wake.
"Do we have any update on DNA confirmation?" he asked, voice low, steady. Controlled.
His right hand man, Enzo, was undecided. "Still inconclusive. The fire was too intense. The remains—"
"Then it wasn't her."
Enzo lowered his gaze. "Sir…"
"I said," Matteo said again, jaw tight, "it wasn't her."
The lie was a greater comfort than the truth ever had been.
Once the meeting was wrapped, Matteo went back to his room. Nobody else came into this space. Not Enzo, not his advisors, not Luciana, although these days she was making an effort. Now she knocked more often, stood in doorways with soft smiles and sympathetic eyes. She had always been good at reading the tides. And manipulating them.
But here, in this secluded chamber overlooking the gardens, Matteo permitted himself just one weakness.
He pulled the drawer on the right side of his desk. Inside, swaddled in a square of black velvet, was a photo of Isla. It had been captured on the Amalfi coast, long ago — before alliances, before betrayal, before death. Her hair in the wind, her eyes squinting in the light, her mouth a smile creaking into laughter. He never remembered what had made her chuckle that day, only that he'd committed the sound to memory.
Now he gazed at the photo, his fingers grazing the edge of the frame. He memorized the sound of her laughter. He feared forgetting it.
He was shaken from his reverie by a soft knock.
He didn't look up. "Not now."
The door opened anyway.
Luciana arrived, heels quiet on the marble, a new silk blouse draping her body. "You still haven't eaten," she said softly, setting a covered tray on a side table. "You'll burn out."
He said nothing.
She stepped closer, eyes darting between the open drawer and what was inside it before he could shut it. Her expression faltered.
"You still look at her."
He met her gaze then, something fierce glinting in his. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything," she said, moving around the desk. "But the world continues, Matteo. Enemies are circling like vultures. You need to focus."
"I am focused," he said with a chill. "The Bratva was stunted from growing," she said. Last week, the Gaglianos folded. And the Spanish backed down when I dispatched them my terms. What do you want me to do? Smile at a gala and act like nothing happened?"
Luciana opened her mouth but no words issued forth. She had seen his rage before — but never like this. This was quieter. More dangerous.
"You think that mourning makes me weak," he continued. "But this?" He waved his hand toward the walls, the war maps. "This is purpose sharp as grief. And if I find out who planned that attack —")
"And you still believe it was internal?"
His eyes narrowed. "I'm telling you, someone knew the security codes. Was able to bypass the Caruso defense protocols. That wasn't only a rival's opportunism. It was precision."
Luciana crossed her arms. "You suspect your own blood?"
Matteo's jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
She paused, then softened her tone. "I miss her too. Isla was… unique. But she's gone. If you continue to live like this — like you're waiting for her ghost to come through that door — you're going to ruin everything she would've wanted you to protect."
"She wouldn't have expected anything from me," he said in a low voice. "Not after what I did not stop."
"You didn't fail. You were ambushed."
"She called me the night of the fire," he said. "Z told me they were inside the estate. And I wasn't there. I should've been there."
Luciana stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're in this, not by yourself, Matteo."
He stiffened but didn't move.
"I can help you," she said in a whisper. "Let me help you."
But Matteo turned his head, gently disengaging from her hand. "Leave the food," he said. "And shut the door behind you."
Luciana held there a second, lips pressed close, and walked away without saying anything more.
With a soft click as the door shut, Matteo heaved a long sigh and turned back to his drawer. He stared at Isla's photo. The pain hadn't muted — it had just learned to wear armor.
He dug to the bottom of the drawer for one more thing — a flash drive, given to him by a Caruso informant he trusted before she disappeared. The man had said nothing. Just slipped it into Matteo's palm at the funeral and lay down and slipped into the crowd.
He hadn't opened it.
Not yet.
Matteo inserted it into his laptop, screen flaring. One video file. No metadata. Just a timestamp — twelve hours before the explosion.
He clicked play.
The screen buzzed with grainy surveillance footage — low light, distorted edges. A hallway. The Caruso estate.
And then—Isla.
She was wearing black and had her hood up and was moving quickly. Matteo swallowed, leaning in, his heart thumping in his chest. He saw her stop at a corridor junction, look around a corner and slip out of frame.
The camera switched angles.
Another corridor. Another figure.
He froze.
The man walking with purpose was adorned with a family crest that was unmistakable as he fingered the ring—a Romano heirloom, one that was only passed to those of blood.
His own cousin, Riccardo Romano.
Matteo's stomach dropped.
The feed cut to black.
And, for the first time in weeks, his hands shook.