It shattered everything. Salvatore managed to calm the family… but he never forgave me for the lies that were told. And he was right not to. That’s not how he should’ve found out that he was truly my son, not my brother. I should’ve told him myself long before the DNA did.
Carrington Caskets andFiori di Cenerecrematorium—they’re yours now, Stellina. The casket company will remain under the Carrington name, as it always has. The crematorium, however, is registered under the Ferretti name. I named itFiori di Cenerefor your grandmother, Francesca—she used to say even from ash, something beautiful could grow. That building is more than a mirror to Carrington Caskets in style—it is a vault, a safeguard, a place where the wrong kind of questions vanish with the smoke.
Both the beauty and the blood. Build what you want from the ashes, but never forget what made the fire.
And Stellina… There's more to say. More secrets, more warnings.
But if you’ve made it this far, you already know the weight I carried to protect this family. And now, that weight may fall to you.
Be cautious.
Be brilliant.
Be brave.
You are your mother’s grace and your father’s fire.
You are a Carrington.
But never forget… You are also a Ferretti.
I love you more than you will ever know.
Forever, Papa
Stella
The paper is still warm from my hands, the edges creased where I’ve gripped it too tightly. Papa’s voice echoes in my head—not the one from our wedding day, when his words trembled like the crystal in our champagne flutes, not the one from our last Sunday dinner, slow and measured like the clink of silverware, but younger, fiercer, unyielding, each syllable cutting clean as glass. My chest tightens, and it’s as if the air has thickened around me. I curl forward, pressing the letter to my sternum, willing the ink to anchor me, but instead it feels like it’s pulling me under, each word a tide I can’t outswim.
The fire in the hearth has gone out. My tea’s gone cold on the table beside me. I can’t move. I can’t stop reading his handwriting, as if staring at it long enough might pull him back.
Fiori di Cenere. The beauty and the blood. The truth and the lies.
I press the letter to my chest and close my eyes. All I smell is him—cedar, leather, faint traces of tobacco—and for a moment, I’m seven again, standing on his toes while he sways to music only he can hear.
The stairs creak. I jolt, tucking the letter under the blanket as if it’s a secret I need to guard.
“Stel?” Donovan’s voice is low, cautious. Barefoot, hair mussed, wearing only the boxers he fell asleep in. He takes in the untouched tea, the way I’m curled into Papa’s chair, the wetness on my cheeks I didn’t realize was still there.
Something in his face softens. He comes closer, kneels in front of me.
“What happened?”
And just like that—the dam inside me cracks.
I fall into him, sobs shaking me apart from the inside out.
“Hey, baby…” His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, one hand cradling the back of my head like he can hold me together if he just doesn’t let go. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“No.” The word rips out of me, jagged, my voice shaking with something far hotter than grief. “I’m not okay. None of this is okay.” My fingers knot in his shoulders, clutching hard enough that he flinches. “My whole life—everything I ever knew—it was all a lie.”
His brow furrows, confusion and worry flickering in his eyes, but I don’t give him the chance to speak. The words are molten now, spilling too fast to stop. “My family. My father. Who I am? All of it was built on something I didn’t even know existed. That envelope held the truth for years, and I only have it because someone killed him.”
The last word cracks, sharp as glass. My chest heaves. Heat flushes my face even as my hands go cold. Donovan’s arms tighten like he can shield me from the truth itself, but it’s too late—it’s in me now, poison I can’t spit out.
His gaze drops to my lap, to where the edge of the letter peeks out from under the blanket. Without asking, he eases it from my grip. I don’t fight him. I can’t. My fingers feel numb as the paper leaves them.
He unfolds it slowly, like it might tear if he breathes too hard. His eyes track each line, his brow knitting tighter the further he reads. When he finally looks up, there’s shock there—but something else too. Something softer.
