Sixteen years. Sixteen years of silence, of convincing myself I had buried her in the graveyard of memory. And yet, here I was, standing at her doorstep like a beggar. Not for love—God knows I’d killed that weakness long ago—but for necessity. I needed her. Needed her favor after the Italians dared to threaten me.

My hand hovered before I knocked. Ridiculous. A man who had stared down assassins, hesitating at a door. I almost laughed.

The lock clicked. The door cracked open. And then—

My world stopped.

Two dark eyes, sharp as glass and all too familiar, stared back at me. My eyes. Staring out of a face I had never seen before, younger, unscarred, but undeniably mine.

Before I could draw breath, before a single word left my lips, the boy’s expression hardened.

“Hell no,” he muttered.

The door slammed in my face with a dull, final thud.