The echo of last night’s dinner pressed against me.His voice, low and certain.I’m only here to keep the peace.He hadn’t lied.He just hadn’t said whose.
I sank into my father’s chair, the leather cold under my palms, and stared at the map pinned to the wall.Small colored pins marked alliances, shipping routes, borderlines.I didn’t need to observe closely to know.
Enrico hadn’t waited.He’d moved.And I couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or… relieved.Because if he’d acted, it meant my father was still alive.It meant, in his way, Enrico kept that promise—to protect what was his.
The question I didn’t dare ask was whether he already countedmeamong those things.
By late afternoon, I sat by the parlor window with a cup of tea, the driveway vanished into mist.A black car appeared through the fog.It rolled to a stop at the front steps.One guard moved forward, wary, but the driver—young, immaculate, with the stillness of someone trained never to flinch—simply stepped out and opened the rear door.He approached the guard carrying a small white box, square and perfect, water beading on the lid.The guard glanced at me through the window, uncertain, but something in the man’s composure made me nod before I could think better of it.
When he handed it over, he said only one thing.
“With Di Fiore’s regards.”
And then he was gone, the car melting back into the fog as quietly as it had come.
My fingers hesitated over the ribbon.When I pulled it loose, inside lay a single silver rose that matched my gown from dinner.Beautiful.Dangerous.Beneath it, a folded card.
Only three words.
For your safety.
No signature.No explanation.Just that.
The silver rose’s edge nicked my thumb; the red came hot and immediate.I pressed it to my lips.The rational part of me—the part raised in a house of strategy and consequence—knew this was a warning.Something I should run far away from… after all Enrico was not the right man for me.But another part, buried deep, read it differently.As something dangerously close to devotion.
I wrapped the rose back in its ribbon before Celia could walk in and see.My hands were shaking, but not entirely from fear.He’d promised peace.
For a long time after, I sat there with the box on my lap, the fog creeping back over the gardens, wondering what kind of man he really was—and what kind of woman couldn’t look away from it.
Twilight bled slow across the sky, yet no one had returned yet.I sat at my vanity, the box still beside me, its white edges now smudged from my fingers.I told myself I should throw it away.That would have been the smart thing—the safe thing.But safety had never been the same as freedom in this house.
Everywhere around me, there were reminders of the world built for me: gowns hung in neat rows, pearls coiled in velvet boxes, each piece chosen to display rather than protect.The life of a perfect daughter, a perfect pawn.The illusion of control dressed in silk and diamonds.
I lifted the rose again.My thumb brushed the spot where it had already drawn blood.Enrico’s message—for your safety.
Was it a promise?Or a threat?Maybe both.
In the mirror, my reflection stared back—composed, deliberate, a woman trying to remember who she’d been before men started making decisions in her name.I won’t be anyone’s bargaining chip.
The vow I’d made days ago whispered through my mind, sharper now, more certain.It wasn’t enough to say it.I had to prove it.I wasn’t something fragile to protect.If my father thought silence meant obedience, he’d learn too.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the small key to his study—the one he hid when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.Celia had let it slip that our families were forever bonded.And from the way Enrico had been eyeing me… something told me that I’d been his for a long time.
Tomorrow, when the house was empty, I’d sneak into his office and find out exactly what my father and Enrico’s agreed upon to keep our families civil.
8
ENRICO
The knock came before dawn.Two short, one long — Marco’s signal.I didn’t bother pretending I’d been asleep.To be honest, I hadn’t slept in my bed in days.Most nights I ended up falling asleep at my desk or on my couch.There was too much going on and not enough hours in the day to ensure it was done right.
“Come in.”
Marco entered, folder in hand.He didn’t speak right away, which told me enough.Bad news didn’t need words.He sat the folder on my desk.“Warehouse Four.Russo’s men hit it just after two.Two men down.Two missing.”
I opened the file.Photos.Fire.Cargo burned down to ash.I flipped the pages without reaction until I reached the last one—a partial schematic of the docks, red circles marking entry points.The perimeter cameras were disabled from the outside.Clean work.Professional.
“Retaliation was expected.”
