My father’s voice echoed again:“You can’t build an empire without enemies.You can only decide how they die.”
For years, I’d repeated that mantra like a prayer.But standing there, the morning light piercing the clouds, there was something he never understood — that an empire built on fear only ensures its king will die afraid.
I wouldn’t make that mistake.
Still, the message gnawed at me.Someone’s coming for your throne.
If they wanted a war, they’d get one.But they wouldn’t find the same man my father was.They’d find something worse — someone who’d learned how to rule both the darkness and the light.
My gaze drifted toward the closed door of the study.Beyond it, somewhere down the corridor, was Mia.She’d stormed into my world like fire — burning, cleansing, forcing me to see what lay beneath the ash.For her, I’d already done the unthinkable.For her, I’d do worse.
I sank back into the chair and opened the file Marco left.Maps, photos, coded ledgers.They weren’t coming for my empire.They were coming forher.And I would burn down the fucking world to keep her safe.
20
MIA
By late afternoon staff moved a beat faster.Guards I hadn’t seen before rotated in at the end of the hall, eyes sweeping, radio earpieces.I tried to read in the library and couldn’t get past the same sentence three times.Tried music—too much noise.
Footsteps approached the library.A soft knock.“Mrs.Di Fiore?”
I turned.Meredith stood in the doorway, hands folded at her waist, a line between her brows she tried to smooth away.“Would you like tea?”she asked.“Or coffee?The kitchen can send something?—”
“I’m fine.”I forced a smile.“Thank you.”
She hesitated.“There will be dinner in the east dining room at eight.”
“Is my husband joining?”
“I’m not sure.”An apology lived in the dip of her head.“If you need anything?—”
“I’ll call.”
When she’d gone, the silence slipped back over everything.I stared at the book in my lap.My reflection ghosted faint in the window—updo loosening, dress I’d chosen carefully this morning now wrinkled at the hip.
I closed the book when I noticed a small black box.I lifted the lid.Keys inside, nestled in velvet.
When you want to see it.
The townhouse.Marco said something about it yesterday.For you, if you want it.A place in the city, smaller than this palace.
For a wild, traitorous second I let myself picture it: a morning without guards at the gate, a coffee shop on the corner that knew my name, flowers from a vendor who didn’t need to run my background to hand me peonies.A life measured in small joys instead of large weapons.Catrina would be laughing, hauling me from store to store, making me try on dresses just because we could.
Except Catrina’s laugh hadn’t rung true this morning.And the house—his house, now mine—had set its jaw.
A voice drifted from around the bend, low and familiar.Marco.Another voice answered—a guard I didn’t know.I stepped into the alcove by the window and listened, hating myself for it and doing it, anyway.
“…tighten the west approach,” Marco said.“No gaps.I want eyes.Rotate every hour.Nobody falls asleep on my watch tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Footsteps moved away, their echo swallowed by the carpet.I stayed in the alcove with the keys pressing into my skin.My phone, when I checked, held a single text.
Catrina: Come to my room before dinner?
I almost said no.
Her room was a sanctuary.A shrine to femininity.She held up two dresses before I’d stepped fully inside.“Black.Or red.Black says untouchable.Red says I dare you.”
