The ties that bind

The air turned electric.

Every heartbeat, every breath, hung in the silence.

Then—Catherine spoke.

And everything changed.

"Rinaldo."

The name dropped like a gunshot.

A cold, sharp weight slammed into Serena's chest.

Lorenzo didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't react.

But the others?

Matteo's jaw tightened. Marco's chair scraped against the floor. Vincenzo's fingers curled into fists. Sofia let out a sharp exhale.

Serena?

She felt like the ground had just vanished beneath her.

Rinaldo.

The man they had mourned. The man their father had trusted.

The man who had been pulling the strings from the grave.

Marco's voice was razor-edged. "You're lying."

Catherine smirked. "Am I?"

Santiago, who had been leaning against the wall, finally pushed off it.

And when he spoke—his voice was lethal.

"Say it again."

Catherine turned to him, her amusement flickering just slightly.

Santiago's head tilted, his dark eyes unreadable.

But Serena knew that look.

It was the same one she had seen right before he killed a man without blinking.

"I said," Catherine murmured, challenging. "Rinaldo."

Santiago nodded once.

Then—he moved.

Faster than anyone had expected, he was behind her chair, one hand curling under her jaw, tilting her head back just slightly.

His grip wasn't violent. It was precise. Calculated.

Enough to remind her who had control.

Serena watched Catherine's breath hitch.

It wasn't fear.

It was something worse.

Recognition.

Santiago's voice was low, dangerous. "Then tell me why."

Lorenzo still hadn't spoken.

He didn't need to.

He was watching, waiting—letting Catherine suffocate on her own confession.

She exhaled sharply. "Because Isabella was getting too close."

Silence.

Marco let out a bitter laugh. "To what?"

Catherine's lips curled slightly. "To taking everything back."

Serena's fingers tightened at her sides.

She wasn't lying.

Their mother had been many things. Manipulative. Cruel. Unforgiving.

But now—she was something else, too.

A woman who had been playing the game from the very beginning.

Lorenzo finally moved.

Slow. Controlled. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a single photograph.