Page 44 of The Ruin I Chose

She hadn’t shed a tear when my father died. She was as much a part of the business as he was. But she always let him wear the face.

She worked in silence, always behind closed doors. She was the one who orchestrated my father’s revenge—quietly, ruthlessly.

When he died, I was twenty-five. Too young to inherit a kingdom built on shadows. But she stood behind me. Not in front. Never in front.

She let me wear the crown, but she held the sword. She never asked for credit. But every move I made in those early years had her fingerprints on it. Part of me admired her for it. Part of me hated that she had to.

Even when Elaine came into my life, my mother stayed close. She didn’t interfere. Didn’t approve either. But she respected my choice. And when Elaine died—when Lorenzo’s recklessness turned fatal—something in me broke. Something dark. A part of me that believed in softness died with her.

My mother saw it. She stepped back. Not out of fear, but out of grief. It took years to crawl out of that rage. And even now, I’m not sure I’ve left it behind.

My father built our name in the shadows—arms, art, and silence. He taught me how to spot a forgery before I could drive. After his death, I expanded the business. My mother guided me through everything—until Elaine. That’s when she stepped back.

Counterfeit art became our cover. Dubai, Istanbul, New York, Geneva—clients who wanted beauty and power, no questions asked. I kept the real pieces for myself. The ones that spoke to me.

Elaine had loved the art and the danger too, until Lorenzo took it too far. Until the accident. Until the blood.

I never forgave him. And I never will. I’ve never forgiven myself for giving him that weapon. Not for the betrayal. Not for the silence. Not for the way he turned love into leverage.

The house was quiet now. The kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe—only reminds. Of what’s been lost. Of what still lingers. The fire was low. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was loaded. We all knew what name would come first. And what blood might follow.

Antonio broke the silence.

“I looked into Isabella again. She’s working with Lorenzo. Helping him transport teenagers across Bulgaria.”

Rage tightened my jaw. My hands balled into fists. Cold fury slid through me like ice through fire.

How many did he touch? How many did he ruin?

“Chidda cagna vilena,” my mother spat.

(That vile bitch.)

I’d almost forgotten she was in the room.

“She was at the auction in Rome. She bumped into us.”

“Does Roxanne know about her?” Antonio asked.

“Know about who?” Roxanne’s voice cut through the room as she took a seat in the armchair opposite me.

I shifted in my seat. Antonio looked at me like a child who’d accidentally spilled the beans.

When did she come down?

I’d been so lost in thought, I barely noticed.

“Isabella,” Antonio said.

“Who?” Roxanne asked, brows raised.

“The woman who won the emerald necklace,” I said through gritted teeth, not looking at her.

“Ahh…the one who got all handsy with you—and then you left me alone at the palazzo?”

Her voice was sharp, controlled, almost mocking. Yet there was a flicker in her eyes—a tiny spark of something she didn’t want to show. I felt it too. A twist of possessiveness I hadn’t expected.

“It’s not like that,” I said, trying to justify.