(Alessandro’s POV)
The silence in the room was as heavy as a tombstone. Five of the most dangerous men in the country stared at me, their faces like stone, waiting for my answer. Don Moretti’s question echoed in the quiet air: Did you start this war?
My entire future, my family’s legacy, hung on my next words. I felt Isabella’s hand, resting on my arm under the table, give my skin a small, reassuring squeeze. Her quiet strength flowed into me, and I felt the last of my nerves turn to cold, hard steel.
I stood up slowly, a sign of respect to the old Don. “No, Don Moretti,” I said, my voice clear and strong, filling the silent room. “I did not start this war. Vittorio Bianchi did.”
I did not yell. I did not make excuses. I simply told the truth.
“He broke the Commission’s oldest rule,”
