“You think this is about business?”
He stood then; the chair scraping softly against the floor.“This is about survival.You think I wanted this for you?You think I sleep well knowing the man who’ll keep this family alive is also the one who could destroy it?”
“Then why do it?”
“Because it’s the only way you live.Everyone is coming after me, honey.I’ve ran my course and right now I’m the last of our family name to carry the legacy.Without a husband for you, one that could survive in this world… you’ll be dead within six months and so will I.”
The words hit like a slap.I stared at him—at the man who’d built an empire out of fear and still believed that counted as love.
He took a slow breath.“You’re my blood,Mia.Everything I do, I do for you.”
“No.”My voice came out steady, low.“You do it because you’re afraid of losing control.Of losing what you built.”
His eyes hardened.“And you’re not afraid?Of what happens if Di Fiore decides peace isn’t enough?”He stared at me, and for a moment, pride flickered beneath the fury.Then it was gone.He turned back to his desk, voice clipped and cold.“This conversation is over.”
“It only just started.”
He didn’t answer.He didn’t have to.The dismissal was clear.I walked out before he could call the guards back in.
The hallway outside was too bright, the air too thin.My hands shook only when I reached the door to my room, when I finally let myself breathe.I understood that freedom and survival were never the same thing.The door clicked shut behind me, soft and final.
I crossed to the vanity and sank into the chair; the reflection staring back at a stranger wearing my face.My pulse was still uneven.Every word from my father replayed in my head, each one cutting deeper the longer I sat still.
You think I wanted this for you?It’s the only way you live.He meant it as protection.That made it worse.
The silver rose laid on the vanity where I’d left it.I reached for it, then stopped.It didn’t feel like a gift anymore.Everything they’d decided for me.The cage they’d gilded with good intentions.
Somewhere out there, Enrico Di Fiore was making his next move.Maybe that was what terrified me most — that he wasn’t wrong when he called itinevitable.I pressed the rose against my palm until the edges bit into the skin.The sting helped.It reminded me I was still my own, even if every man in this city thought otherwise.
The storm outside started again — low thunder rolling through the hills, rain tapping against the windows like a heartbeat trying to get in.I imagined him out there, listening to it too.The same rhythm.The same hunger for control neither of us could keep.
I rose and moved to the closet.The gown from the dinner still hung there — silver, perfect, untouched since the night it changed everything.I brushed my fingers over the fabric once, then turned away.The world they built for me was collapsing.I wasn’t going to die under its ruins.
Past midnight, even the guards had gone still—boots planted, heads bowed, lulled by the rhythm of the rain.I waited until the hall clock struck one before I moved.The key was cold in my palm, small enough to vanish inside my sleeve.I’d taken it.Pretending I’d never use it.
The door gave under the turn of the key with a soft click.Inside, Shadows draped across the room like velvet—desk, shelves, the faint outline of the globe by the window.My father’s empire, mapped and measured and waiting.
I lit a single lamp.The drawer on the right.The one he locked whenever he spoke of business.Inside were contracts, ledgers, names.All tidy, all clean.Until the last folder.MorettiandDi Fiore.My name was there too.Centered.Elegant.Binding.
In exchange for the preservation of family holdings and continued peace between territories, the engagement of Mia Moretti to Enrico Di Fiore shall be enacted.
I read it twice, once as his daughter and once as his prisoner.
The edges blurred, tears hot but unshed.I set the page down and let the anger find its shape.It wasn’t loud.It wasn’t wild.It was clean.I pulled the lighter from the desk drawer—his, engraved with the Moretti crest—and struck it.The flame caught fast.Orange against ivory.Promise against permission.
The paper curled at the edges.I stood there while it burned.When the last corner folded in on itself, I opened the window.The wind caught the ashes, scattering them into the night like confessions.
Not a plea.Not surrender.A message.
I closed the window, locked the desk, and slipped back into the dark before the house woke.All this time, I’d been his.There was no choice.My father lied to me.
10
ENRICO
The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.It crawled down the office windows.I’d been staring at the map for hours, the cigarette burning down to nothing between my fingers.Every red mark on the paper was a promise—fulfilled or waiting to be.The silence was steady, the kind that made thought feel heavy.Then the phone rang.Three short bursts.“Di Fiore.”
His voice came low, steady but carrying something underneath.“There was an incident at the Moretti estate.”
