{Nico’s pov}
“Eight years,” I said quietly. My voice was calm now. Too calm. “Eight years you sat at my table. Eight years, you smiled in my face while you handed my life over to Marco and Dante like scraps.”
His breathing hitched. His lips parted, trembling. I pressed the barrel of my gun under his chin.
“You should’ve run faster,” I whispered.
But Lorenzo —
The bastard still had the gall to smile.
“You’re too late, Nico,” he rasped, spitting blood at my boot. “Even if you kill me now, it’s over for you. Marco… Marco has already made his move.”
My jaw ticked. “What move?”
His grin widened, teeth red with blood.
“Elena…” His eyes slid past me toward her crumpled figure on the dock. “She’s the final piece. When she remembers who she is… she’ll slit your throat herself.”
My hand
