Then my father’s ringtone shatters it, cutting straight through the dark.
Stella
When I answer the phone, Salvatore only says two things—Fioridi Cenere—9:45 a.m.The line goes quiet before I can ask a single question.
When I try to call back, it goes straight to voicemail. A typical man—leaving me to assume which day of the week he meant, like I have nothing better to do than wait on his clock.
At 9:30 sharp, Elaine and I pull up to Fiori di Cenere. From the outside, it doesn’t look like a crematorium at all. Smooth limestone walls gleam in the sun, tall bronze-framed windows catching the morning light. A short flight of broad limestone steps leads to the entrance, flanked by low lanterns that look more like art pieces than fixtures. The doors aren’t heavy or foreboding but sleek bronze, etched with subtle star motifs that catch and scatter the light. Everything about it whispers elegance. Sleek. Timeless. Luxury meant to make death look palatable.
Elaine’s heels click against the marble steps as we approach, the sound sharp in the hush of the morning. My stomach knots tighter with every step, but I keep my chin high. I pull open thebronze doors, and we step inside. The air is cool, scented faintly of white lilies. Marble tile stretches out in soft ivory and gray veins, polished to a mirror sheen. The space feels more like a boutique gallery than anything tied to death—sleek lines, warm light spilling down from recessed fixtures, and bronze accents echoing the windows outside. It’s quiet, but not cold. Inviting. Designed to make grief feel less suffocating, almost calming.
Elaine and I stand hand in hand, taking it all in—this is the first time I’ve actually set foot inside the crematorium. The luxury around me feels hollow, like it’s trying too hard to mask the truth. Dread creeps through my veins as the sound of heavy footsteps echoes from the back hall. Each one grows louder, sharper, until he turns the corner… and my world stops.
For a heartbeat, I think I’m staring at a ghost. The three-piece suit clings to him like it was cut from shadow and stitched onto his frame—precise, elegant, and unforgiving. My father used to look sharp, but this is different. This fabric is woven with power, tailored to command. For that moment, it feels like Vincenzo Carrington has walked out of the grave.
Then I see the eyes. Not the warm, steady brown I grew up trusting, but glacial blue, sharp enough to cut through bone. That’s when the truth hits: this isn’t a ghost. This is Salvatore.
He closes the distance with unhurried steps, each one echoing against the marble floor. His presence doesn’t just fill the room; it claims it. When he reaches us, his mouth curves into something that could almost pass for a polite smile, but it never reaches those cold eyes.
“Stellina,” he says smoothly, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel. His gaze flicks to where Elaine’s hand is still linked with mine. Then he lets it travel the length of her frame, sharp, assessing. “And who is this? I wasn’t aware that our conversation required… legal counsel.”
The words aren’t cruel, but they’re edged, threaded with the kind of amusement that feels dangerous.
“Follow me.” His tone leaves no room for hesitation.
We fall into step behind him, his polished shoes clicking steadily against the marble. The hallway stretches long and quiet, lined with bronze sconces that cast a soft glow against the limestone walls. Everything here is designed to look serene, but underneath it hums with something colder, controlled.
We pass a room with rows of chairs arranged neatly, facing a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass. Beyond it, the cremation chamber waits, all clean lines and chrome, hidden behind the illusion of calm. It’s clinical. Sterile. A place built for grief to be staged, managed, and observed.
Salvatore doesn’t pause. He turns left, leading us away from the furnace room, deeper into the private wing. At the end of the hall, he pushes open a set of bronze double doors and steps aside for us to enter.
The office is large, deliberate, and overdone. A sprawling desk dominates one end, dark wood gleaming like it’s been waxed within an inch of its life. To the side sits a long conference table, the kind meant for serious business, not mourning. Everything about the space screams power—the leather chairs, the clean lines, the silence that seems heavier here than anywhere else.
“This room isn’t on the blueprints,” Salvatore says smoothly, closing the doors behind us. His gaze flicks over both of us, sharp as glass. “Soundproof. No signals in or out. Meetings held here stay here.”
He gestures toward the conference table. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
I hesitate at the threshold, pulse thundering. This doesn’t feel like family. It feels like walking into a negotiation with a man who already knows how it will end.
Salvatore gestures to the table, but before I can sit, his voice cuts through. “I’m sorry for your loss. Vincenzo was a greatman.” His ice-blue gaze softens just enough to sting. “I only wish I’d known him as a father and not a brother. Maybe then I would’ve had a chance to know you sooner. I always thought it might’ve been nice to have a sister.”
My throat tightens, but I manage, “Thank you, Salvatore.”
His mouth tilts, faintly amused. “Call me Enzo. Vincenzo’s blood runs in both of us. That makes you my sister.”
I nod once, then sit. My palms are damp against the polished wood of the conference table. He reclines slightly, one ankle crossing over his knee, power disguised as comfort.
“He’s been cheating for years,” I confess, the words sour as ash. “I caught him in my bed with another woman, but he started long before the wedding. Before I even put on the dress.” I inhale, forcing myself to meet Enzo’s cold eyes. “I served him divorce papers. Now he threatens to take everything—my company, my name, everything my father—our father—built.”
Enzo hums low in his throat, gaze flicking between us. When it lands on Elaine, his eyes sharpen, catching something in her face. Guilt. Familiarity. A slow smile curls his mouth, dangerous and knowing. “Ah. Sothisis the mistress.” His tone is mocking but not cruel—almost approving. “Messy. But not surprising.”
Elaine stiffens, but he lifts a hand as if to brush the moment aside. “No judgment here. If anything, I prefer honesty over pretense.”
I press forward before he can twist the knife further. “You’ve read the letter. You know the truths it holds—about the business, about the family. Donovan isn’t bluffing. He’ll strip me of everything if I let him, and worse… I think he’d take it to the authorities.”
Enzo doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, fingers steepled, his gaze fixed on me like he’s dissecting every word I’ve said, every twitch of my mouth. The silence stretches, heavyenough that my pulse stumbles. Then, at last, his voice cuts through—smooth, calm, and dangerous.
“Then let’s talk about a solution to your pest problem, Stellina.”
