They didn’t tell me he was dead until I was already on the plane home.

Twelve years of service, and I never lost a step. Not when bullets rained like hellfire. Not when I watched brothers-in-arms vanish in red mist. But hearing that my stepbrother—Nikola—was buried three weeks ago while I was packing my duffel bag in Kabul? That hit different.

They said it like it was just another report. KIA. But this wasn’t a soldier. This was my brother. My rival. The bastard who married her.

Her.

God, her.

She was seventeen when I first saw her—barefoot in our kitchen, stealing strawberries from the counter. She looked up at me like I was the villain in a story she didn’t want to tell. And maybe I was. Because I wanted her then. And I hated myself for it.

But she didn’t choose me. She chose him.

Nikola got the family. The rings. The house. The son.

And I got the war.

Twelve years, I stayed away. Fought other people's battles because fighting my own would've torn me apart.

But now he’s gone.

And our tradition—our cursed, blood-woven tradition—says she’s mine. She belongs to the next brother. The protector. The heir. The mafia doesn’t run on love. It runs on bloodlines and duty. And like it or not, I’m back to claim both.

The plane landed. No one was there. Not my mother. Not my uncle. Not even one of the foot soldiers who usually swarm the tarmac when the heir returns.

Just silence.

And then I saw her.

Standing like a ghost stitched in sunlight. Pale coat. Messy bun. Eyes darker than night, swollen from mourning.

And beside her, a little girl, clinging to her coat pocket.

Wait—a girl?

I thought they only had a son.