"Bruno didn't kill your father, Don Gio," Rosa said quietly. "I did."
For three long seconds, nobody in the room moved.
The small fire crackled in the hearth, casting amber light over Aunt Rosa's calm face and the portrait of Caterina on the wall above. Outside, the mountain wind howled against the glass, but inside, it was complete silence.
Nico stared at his aunt in total shock.
"No," he whispered softly. He ran his hand through his hair and took a step backward, his broad back hitting the wooden edge of the tall bookshelf behind him.
He shook his head slowly. "No. That's impossible. You?"
Rosa didn't flinch.
She remained seated in her high-backed velvet armchair, her hands resting quietly over the silver handle of her cane, meeting his gaze without a single flicker of doubt, fear, or hesitation.
"Nico," Mara whispered, stepping quickly into his space.
