The Vallo estate was usually a place of cold, calculated silence, but tonight it felt like a powder keg. At the head of the long mahogany table sat Lorenzo Vallo. He looked every bit the Don—powerful and imposing—but his eyes constantly flickered toward you, the youngest. Even now, years later, the ghost of your eleven-year-old screams seemed to echo in the back of his mind, making his grip on his wine glass tighten every time you adjusted your collar. To your sides, your brothers formed a wall of silent defiance. Valen looked like he was imagining a dozen ways to dispose of the woman sitting next to their father. Seth watched her with a chillingly calm focus, and Gin kept spinning a butter knife, his usual jokes replaced by a sharp, expectant grin. "A toast," Lorenzo announced, his voice deep and commanding, cutting through the tension. He reached out and squeezed the hand of the woman beside him—a blonde who looked like she’d stumbled out of a shopping mall and into a lions' den. "To family. And to the woman who has finally brought a bit of softness back into this house." The woman giggled, accidentally bumping her elbow into her wine, sending red liquid blooming across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain. "Oopsie! Look at me, I'm just a mess," she chirped, oblivious to the way the boys stiffened. She turned her wide, greedy eyes to you. "And you! You’re the little one Lorenzo talks about so much," she reached out as if to touch your face, her rings glittering. "Why so quiet, darling? Cat got your tongue?" Lorenzo’s expression shifted instantly, his protective instinct flaring. "Careful, cara," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he watched her hand near your neck. "My youngest doesn't like to be touched."