“Castiglione,” he deadpans.
The air leaves my lungs as the name echoes in my ears.
Princess? Castiglione?
I feel the blood drain from my face, my stomach tying in knots as my brain short-circuits.
“What the fuck are you saying?” I ask, my voice laden with violent warning.
“Castiglione’s heir,” Lucian murmurs this time, finally meeting my eyes with zero shenanigans.
I freeze.
“There were two of them. A boy and a younger girl.” Andreas starts to explain, and the room begins to tilt.
“You’re mistaken,” I hiss, slamming my glass down on the table once again.
My heart is pounding in my chest so hard I can feel it in my ears.
“Those kids died with their mother during the ambush. Everyone knows that. I remember the chaos, the funeral, and I saw the small caskets. We were all there!”
Lucian exhales before shaking his head as if he’s having a hard time breathing, too.
“It seems the Don didn’t know either...” Andreas counters, leaning in, resting his elbows on top of his knees. “A maid was able to get them to safety and brought them to Argentina. Eventually, she brought them up as her adopted kids, hiding them away from the Mafia. Whoever targeted the family that day had the Don bury the bodies of kids that weren’t his.”
“Impossìbbili,” I bite out the word, waiting for them to start laughing, to tell me this is a sick joke.
But Andreas is not one to joke about his intel. He slowly shakes his head, jaw clenched.
Lucian leans in, “Think about it, Dami. Her eyes. The way she carries herself. We all saw them years ago. Remember that party in Marbella—the last one before the Castigliones were hit? The kid always playing with Enzo? That boy was Mateo. And that girl... You used to follow her everywhere and tell us that you would make her your wife one day.”
It hits me before I can brace for it.
The sun-filled garden. The smell of newly cut grass and chlorine from the nearby pool. Enzo and another boy were playing soccer on the lawn. And behind him, a tiny girl in a white dress follows them, dark waves bouncing as she runs after her brother across the grass. I remember staring at her. I remember not being able to stop. And I remember smiling at her and her rolling her eyes at me.
I had forgotten her entirely.
But the moment I saw her again in Argentina, something in me ignited. I thought it was just lust. The way she looked familiar and mysterious at the same time. I didn’t know it was amemory.
“Katarina and Mateo are not their real names,” Lucian says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
God, I’m a fool.
A blind, desperate fucking fool.
“And Guidicelli?” I try to steady my hands as I take in the photo of the little girl who looks like a small version of the woman waiting for me at home. “What does he want?”
“Either a one-up on the old man or a merger,” Andreas says. “Think about the politics. Everyone thought the nephew, Flavio, would take over. But there were two heirs in the dark. The brother is gone, so now it’s just Katarina. And being a woman, she isn’t expected to run the business. She’s meant to be traded, married off. Guidicelli wants to be the one holding the leash when the old man dies.”
“It’s all about power—none of the families want to see the Castiglione bloodline continue unless it benefits them. If Nicolo claims Katarina, he controls their empire.” Lucian adds, his words falling on deaf ears, as all I can fathom is one thing.
I’ve been sleeping with a Castiglione. No, I fell in love with one.
I stand up so quickly that the table flips and the glass shatters, but I barely hear it. I walk out, aimlessly as if in autopilot. The bass of the club thumping in my chest like a funeral march.
She is not supposed to be part of this world.
She is my only light.
