(Translation in Author's thoughts)
The moment Alessandro stepped off the plane, the Roman heat did nothing to thaw the ice surging through his veins.
It was rage that drove him now — cold, searing, ancient. Rage that had built quietly over years of silence, until now it exploded with a fury that could not be contained.
He didn't sleep on the flight. Didn't speak. Barely breathed.
He just seethed.
By the time he reached the wrought iron gates of the Marchetti estate, the driver hadn't even parked before Alessandro shoved the car door open and stormed up the gravel drive, jaw clenched tight, the wind yanking at the edges of his coat.
"Signorino!" One of the house guards called after him.
But Alessandro didn't stop.
He burst through the grand double doors, the sound echoing through the marble halls like a gunshot. Heads turned. Servants froze. And from the staircase, his mother appeared — elegant, startled, and clutching her silk shawl closer.
"Alessandro? Che succede? Perché sei qui?"
His aunt emerged from the next room. Then his uncle. Then his father. The entire house stirred.
Alessandro didn't slow his stride.
"Dov'è il bastardo vecchio?" he barked, voice booming through the corridors.
Where is the old bastard?
Shock flickered across their faces. Even his father looked at him like he was possessed.
"Alessandro!" his mother gasped. "Che stai dicendo?"
But Alessandro didn't look at her. Didn't look at any of them.
His feet carried him straight toward Giuliano's study. He threw the doors open with such force they slammed against the walls.
Giuliano sat behind his desk, sipping espresso, a paper in front of him. Calm. Like nothing in the world had changed.
Alessandro stood in the doorway like a tempest made flesh.
"You knew."
Giuliano barely glanced up. "Alessandro. You've flown all the way here and forgotten your manners?"
Alessandro's eyes burned. "Don't play with me, old man. You knew about the calls. The voicemails. You had my fucking phone."
Giuliano set down his cup with a quiet clink. "I protected you."
"You robbed me!" Alessandro shouted, stepping forward. "You stole from me the only thing I ever gave a damn about!"
His fists slammed on the desk. The lamp rattled.
"You sent me away like a dog. You broke her heart and told me it was for the good of the family. You made me believe I had to forget her. And all this time, you knew—" his voice cracked slightly, "you knew she was trying to reach me."
Giuliano's face hardened. "And if I hadn't? You would have stayed? You would have become weak. She would have cost you everything."
Alessandro stared at him. "She was everything."
A beat of silence.
Then Alessandro laughed — bitter, hollow.
"You thought you were protecting the Marchetti name. You thought keeping your bloodline pure was more important than a life, than truth, than family."
He stepped back from the desk, his voice lowering to something far more dangerous.
"You think you've won. You think you've built something that can't be touched. But I swear to you —"
He pointed a finger at Giuliano.
"I will burn it to the ground. Everything you've built. Everything you think you control. The Marchetti empire will belong to me — and I will rip your legacy apart brick by brick. You are no longer Don in my eyes. You're just an old man who lost everything and doesn't even know it yet."
Giuliano rose to his feet slowly. "You forget yourself, ragazzo."
"No," Alessandro growled. "I finally remember who I am."
He turned and walked out, leaving the doors wide open behind him.
And for the first time in his life, Giuliano Marchetti felt something colder than age chill his spine: the realization that his heir no longer feared him — and now had everything to fight for.
INT. MARCHETTI ESTATE ROME— LATE AFTERNOON
Alessandro's chest rose and fell with every uneven breath. His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched at his sides. He wasn't sure if it was rage or grief rattling in his bones, but it shook him to his core.
He stalked down the corridor, trying to steady himself, but his thoughts were spiraling—Bell, Enzo, seven years of what could've been, stolen. Stolen by the man who dared to call himself Don.
"Alessandro!" came his father's voice—sharp, commanding. Lorenzo stepped forward, brows drawn in concern. "What's going on? What did he say to you?"
Alessandro stopped. His eyes lifted, meeting his father's, and for the first time in years, there was something wounded in his expression—haunted, even.
His mother, Liliana, stood a few steps behind, her hand at her chest, lips parted in confusion. "Tesoro…" she whispered, stepping forward. "What happened in there? Why are you shaking?"
Alessandro didn't answer at first. He looked at both of them—really looked.
They stood here, cloaked in wealth and silence, his mother wrapped in pearls, his father still trying to carry the shadow of a man who'd ruled over them all. And yet… they had no idea. Not a clue that their own blood had been walking the earth for six years now. That he had a son. A child who bore the Marchetti eyes. The Marchetti name.
His voice, when it finally came, was low and raw. "You don't even know," he said. "You don't even know you have a grandson."
Lorenzo froze.
Liliana blinked, stunned. "What did you say?"
Alessandro looked at his father—at the man he had once admired, once believed would always protect him. "His name is Enzo," he said quietly. "Lorenzo Marchetti. He's six."
A beat of silence.
Liliana's hand flew to her mouth.
Lorenzo's eyes widened. "You… have a son?"
Alessandro nodded, slowly. "I found out a few weeks ago. I just met him less than a week ago. He's perfect. He looks just like me when I was his age… except his nose," his voice broke into a whisper, "that's Bell's."
"Bell?" Liliana breathed.
"Yes. Isabella Casanova." His hands flexed at his sides. "She tried to tell me… all those years ago. Nonno intercepted her messages. Her calls. Her last voicemail." His voice cracked again. "He knew. He knew she was pregnant. And he never told me."
The pain, the betrayal, the fury—it was all written across his face.
Lorenzo looked like he'd been struck. He stepped forward, his voice low. "Why would he do that?"
"Because she wasn't good enough for him," Alessandro said bitterly. "Because the Casanova name didn't suit his vision of legacy. Because he wanted to control everything. Even who I loved. Even my child."
Liliana looked like she might collapse.
Alessandro turned slightly toward the door. "I'm going back to New York tomorrow."
"Wait—Alessandro—" Lorenzo started.
"I'm not staying here another second." He looked over his shoulder. "And I swear to God, Papà—if you ever had even the slightest idea of what he was doing to me, and you said nothing—then you're no better than he is."
The words cut deep. And Alessandro didn't wait for an answer.
He walked away—grief, fury, and love all colliding in his chest. And as he left, the quiet words he'd told Bell before leaving echoed back to him in his mind.
"I'm going to fix this."
The air was still, heavy with the aftershock of Alessandro's words.
"His name is Enzo. Lorenzo Marchetti. He's six."
Lorenzo felt the floor tilt beneath him, the world spin off balance. He stared at his son—his only son—trying to piece together what he had just heard.
A grandson.
He had a grandson.
And not just any boy. A boy with his name. A boy who'd been walking the earth for six years. A boy who bore the weight of two legacies and yet had been hidden from them all.
Liliana's voice cracked beside him, but he barely heard it. He was too busy looking past his son's fury—looking into his eyes and seeing something that shook him to his core: loss.
"Per l'amor di Dio…" Lorenzo murmured, running a hand down his face. "He was named after me?"
Alessandro didn't respond. His chest still heaved, his eyes flickered with restrained emotion.
Lorenzo staggered back a step, disoriented. He had always known he was his father's favorite—Giuliano made no effort to hide it. Of all his siblings, Lorenzo was the only one who'd produced a male heir, and it had only tightened the bond between him and Giuliano. Or so he thought.
To know now that Giuliano had kept this—this—from him?
That he had a grandson, one who carried his name, one who had his blood—and he had never even known?
He whispered, "Figlio di puttana…" under his breath, eyes flashing with betrayal.
Liliana was crying softly now, covering her mouth. "How could he…? A child. Alessandro's child."
"My grandson," Lorenzo growled.
His jaw locked. Rage—silent and dangerous—coursed through him. He had always tried to toe the line, always tried to honor his father even when he disagreed. But this?
This was unforgivable.
He looked back to Alessandro, who had paused just before the front door. "Did Bell… did she raise him on her own?"
Alessandro nodded once. "With her family. With the Marchetti name. But not a single call. Not a letter. Not a damn word from any of us. Because we didn't know." He shook his head. "Because he made sure we wouldn't."
Lorenzo stepped forward, his voice low and urgent. "Alessandro… I swear to you, I didn't know. Your mother didn't know. If I had—"
"You didn't," Alessandro cut in, eyes cold. "But he did. And he made sure no one else would. So don't try to defend him."
"I'm not," Lorenzo said firmly. "Not anymore."
He turned, his stare drifting toward the hallway that led to his father's study. For the first time in his life, Lorenzo Marchetti felt ashamed to carry the same name.
He looked back to his son. "Go to your boy. To Enzo. But this isn't over. Not with him."
Alessandro nodded once, and without another word, he stepped out into the early Roman evening.
The door closed behind him.
And inside the once-golden halls of the Marchetti estate, all Lorenzo could feel was the fracture of something far older than just a family name.