20. Lucrezia
Chapter 20
Lucrezia
A few hours have passed since dawn. I sit in Raiden’s living room, perched on the arm of his couch, staring at a television set that’s muted but showing frantic footage of emergency vehicles and concerned reporters gesturing at maps. The day’s sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, striping the hardwood floor in pale gold bars that shift with the gentle morning breeze. The silence between us—Raiden, who hasn’t moved from his rigid position by the window, Daniela, whose fingers keep twitching toward her phone, Kristopher, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, and me—is charged, like the crackle in the air after lightning strikes but before the thunder rolls in.
Outside, the distant wail of sirens drifts through the window, piercing the morning stillness. Firetrucks. Emergency vehicles. Police cruisers. Manhattan, Kansas isn’t known for early-morning excitement—it’s a place where the most dramatic events usually involve college football games or the occasional tornado warning—and yet here it is, the quiet broken by howls and horns that must be echoing through half the city, bouncing off brick buildings and startling pigeons from their roosts. The noise finds its way into the house, seeping through weatherstripping and window frames, a muffled soundtrack to what we’ve done, an accusatory chorus that makes my stomach flip flop with glee.
Daniela sits at Raiden’s kitchen table, her phone in hand, brow furrowed. I can see the faint glow of the screen reflected in her eyes as she scrolls through social media groups—local community forums and the “Manhattan KS Little Apple Unite!” Facebook group. Voices from a thousand digital throats fill her feed: “What’s going on?” “Hearing a lot of sirens today,” and someone posts a grainy smartphone picture of thick black smoke billowing above the rooftops. The caption reads: “Castiglione house on fire??? Wth???”
Daniela clears her throat, looking up from her phone with wide eyes. Her voice trembles just a bit, like she’s working to keep herself under control. “They’re posting pictures already. People are freaking out, asking if anyone knows what’s happening. Some say it’s the Castiglione place—I’ve seen three different angles of the smoke now. Others are just scared, talking about calling the police or checking on their neighbors. No one knows what started it.” She swallows hard, her thumb hovering over the screen as more comments pour in. “Not yet, anyway.”
I shift my gaze to Raiden, who stands rigid by the TV, remote clutched in his hand. His shoulders tense as he turns the volume up, the plastic buttons clicking beneath his thumb. The local news anchor, a woman with carefully styled honey-blonde hair and a crisp navy blazer, appears on-screen, her makeup perfect. Her voice carries a forced calm; the kind reporters use when they know more than they can say, when they’re trying to relay information without inciting panic.
“...reports of an explosion early this morning at the residence of alleged underworld figure Saverio Castiglione. Details are scarce, but first responders are on scene. Neighbors reported a loud bang followed by flames. Saverio Castiglione, long rumored to have ties to organized crime, has always remained an enigmatic figure. Authorities have never confirmed these allegations, citing a lack of evidence. All we know is that today, his estate is engulfed in flames. Fire crews are battling the blaze, which has already consumed most of the main building. Police have cordoned off the area and are refusing to comment on whether anyone was inside at the time of the explosion. Sources close to the investigation suggest this may not have been an accident, though officials have yet to make any formal statement regarding the cause.”
I close my eyes briefly. Alleged underworld figure. Enigmatic. Always a lack of evidence. Saverio built his empire on shadows and whispers, never allowing the truth to come to light. Now, the truth stands in a fiery silhouette against the morning sky. The flames dance higher on the television as firefighters attempt to put them out, but it’s a fitting funeral pyre for a man who lived by burning others. Some might call it justice, others revenge, but as I watch the inferno consume what’s left of the Castiglione legacy, I call it just desserts.
Raiden snorts quietly. “Authorities never had the spine to pin him down,” he mutters under his breath, leaning forward to catch more details. The anchor continues talking about “unconfirmed casualties,” “one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the region,” and “no official statements from law enforcement.” It’s all guesswork. Even now, Saverio’s legacy remains elusive.
I turn from the TV, my heart strangely calm. The tension coiled within me feels like it’s unwinding, though not replaced by peace—merely by cold satisfaction. The house I grew up in, where I learned the hard way that knowledge was not for girls, where leather-bound books were locked away behind mahogany doors, is now ash and cinder. My father’s legacy, Saverio’s inheritance, Lucia Terlizzi’s fortress—it all burns in a blaze that seems almost purifying.
Footsteps approach, soft against the hardwood floor. Kristopher steps up beside me, placing a hand lightly on the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively. The intimate gesture makes my skin crawl, but I force myself not to recoil. Not now, when we’re so close. I sense his energy—a twisted devotion masquerading as loyalty. He leans in, his breath warm against my ear, voice low and reverent, eyes shining with something unholy. “This is it,” he says, almost breathless, his words trembling with anticipation, “This is everything we ever wanted.”
I stiffen, every muscle going taut beneath his touch. We? The presumption in that single word burns hotter than the flames on the television. He presumes to share in my victory, to claim this moment as ours, as if his minor role elevated him to something more than a disposable piece in my game. But this has never been about him, has never belonged to anyone but me. He’s a pawn who grew too fond of the board, who mistook his assigned position for true partnership. Still, I understand the necessity of keeping him close—for now.
Outside the window, I see the peaceful suburban street Raiden calls home. A car putters by slowly, someone leaving to get groceries or drop a child off at daycare. The world spins on, unaware that a war ended this morning, that an empire turned to ash. Kristopher presses a little closer, the warmth of his hand too familiar and invasive. He expects gratitude, maybe love. He expects me to melt into his arms like a prize claimed after battle. But I’ve already been a battle-earned prize before, and I never will be again.
Not today. Not ever.
I turn my head slightly, catching his reflection in the glass. The morning light casts harsh shadows across his face, making his expression look even more presumptuous than it is. He’s smiling as if we’re lovers sharing a secret, as if the violence we’ve wrought together means something intimate. “Be careful,” I remind him. “Don’t misunderstand your role here. What happened doesn’t make us what you think we are.”
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Lucrezia?—”
I cut him off by stepping away, closer to the television and Raiden, putting deliberate distance between us. Kristopher’s hand falls from my back, his fingers grazing empty air where I once stood, his disappointment palpable in the heavy silence that follows. Good. Let him simmer in that uncertainty, not knowing where he stands or what to make of my rejection. I owe him nothing, not explanations, not comfort, and certainly not the intimacy he seems to crave.
As I watch the news replay the same shaky cell phone footage of smoke and flames licking at the morning sky, I allow myself a small, savage smile. The satisfaction burns as hot as the fire on screen. “The final point is scored,” I murmur, voice low enough that only Raiden might catch it. “Saverio’s name will become a footnote in this city’s underbelly, nothing more than a cautionary tale whispered in dark corners. His house is ash and his empire dust.”
No one stops me; no one questions the finality in my tone. Raiden stands there, arms crossed, tension radiating from his rigid posture, and I sense he’s on high alert, wondering what I’ll do next. His dark eyes track my every movement like a predator assessing a threat. Daniela is off in a corner, phone still clutched in her trembling hand, probably praying silently that this nightmare doesn’t get worse. Her face has gone pale, drained of color like she’s seen a ghost. Kristopher hovers, uncertain and wounded by my dismissive remark. And I stand at the center of it all, finally free.
The world can speculate, the city can guess, and the authorities can flail in search of answers. But we know the truth. We watched the strike delivered. We won, and victory tastes as sweet as I imagined it would.
“Call it a lesson,” I say under my breath, my gaze drifting over the quiet neighborhood outside, where sprinklers click, and birds carry on their morning routines, oblivious to what’s transpired. “A final reminder to anyone who thought I’d stay in my place, anyone who believed they could cage me with their rules and expectations.”
Saverio is gone—his legacy a ruin smoldering in the morning light. And I? I am still here, breathing, standing, and very much alive.