Chapter Two - Severo
Serevo’s Private Quarters – Northern Wing, Dante’s Estate
Her mouth tastes like wine and cherry lip gloss, neither of which I asked for, but both of which I take.
She giggles against my lips, breathless and warm, her fingers sliding under the collar of my shirt as she pushes it open, one button at a time. “You always wear too many clothes,” she murmurs.
I hum, leaning into her neck, teeth grazing lightly just to hear that little gasp she always makes when I—
“Oh,” she breathes, squirming in my lap. “You’re such a bastard.”
“I’m your favorite bastard,” I correct, one hand sliding firmly up her thigh. “And don’t lie. You waited all week to get ruined.”
“I did not.”
“You wore lace under a trench coat. That’s a confession, not a denial.”
She laughs again, head tipping back, and I steal her mouth mid-laugh. A little heat, a little bite. I guide her hips like I’ve got all the time in the world.
And then—
Click.
The door opens without knock. Matteo steps in, perfectly tailored as always. The room sharpens around him.
The woman in my lap stiffens, peels off me quickly, tugging her dress back into place as she rises without a word and vanishes down the side corridor.
Matteo barely glances at her.
“She’s here,” he says, voice clipped.
I stretch, not bothering to fix my shirt. “How easy was it to get her?”
“We made it look like she travelled overseas,” he replies. “Left a letter. Just like you asked.”
I nod.“Okay. Lead me to her.”
Matteo hesitates. His eyes flick down to my open shirt, my bare chest still half-marked with lipstick, and the belt I haven’t bothered to tighten.
He doesn’t say anything, of course. Just gives me that look —the one that says Really? Like this?
I grin. “She’s unconscious, Matteo. I doubt she’ll mind the dress code.”
He exhales softly through his nose—his version of a sigh—and turns. “This way.”
I follow him through the northern hallway, past the gunmetal doors and biometric scanners, then down—deeper—beneath the estate. The lighting changes as we go: warm gold shifting to sterile white, then to low, industrial gray. The air grows colder. Still. Even down here feels different— denser.
The underground levels aren’t part of the architectural plans. Not even the blueprints stored with the city. They’re carved behind reinforced steel, lined with electromagnetic shielding and escape shafts disguised as wine cellars. I designed them myself.
We pass two doors with retinal scanners. One with voice authorization.
The door hisses open, and the Ash Cell greets us like a whispered secret.
It’s beautiful—like the rest of the house. A lie wrapped in velvet.
The walls are a cool taupe, smooth-textured and matte-finished, lined with thin slivers of bronze that catch the overhead light like quiet veins. No windows. No clocks. Just silence and soft air that smells faintly of sandalwood.
A chandelier hangs directly above the bed—not ornate, but modern and sleek.
The light is gentle, ambient, diffused through glass teardrops that send ghost reflections across the floor.
There's a plush armchair in the corner, rich mahogany leather, and a marble-topped side table beside it with a glass of water already placed.
Even the rug is handwoven.
And the bed—
It's king-sized, layered in ash-grey Egyptian cotton, a velvet throw tossed over the end like an afterthought. She lies on it, crumpled at an angle, one leg bent awkwardly under her, the other stretched toward the edge. Her body folds like it’s still bracing for impact.
Lira Falco.
I take a step closer.
Her hair spills across the pillow in inky curls, the kind that can’t be replicated in salons. Her cheek rests on her hand, lips parted just slightly, as if caught mid-breath. There’s a faint crease between her brows—like even in unconsciousness, she doesn’t trust the peace.
She’s still in the same clothes. Tight jeans. That burgundy top clinging to her.. The hem is twisted slightly, exposing the smallest sliver of pale waist. She’s barefoot now. Her ankles look thin.
I glance to Matteo. “She fought?”
“She nearly made it to the exit.”
“Of course she did.” I smile faintly. “I wouldn’t have bothered with her if she didn’t have teeth.”
He hands me the tablet.
I scroll through the dossier. It’s all here—her life pressed into digital ink.
Lira M. Falco.
Born in Naples. Moved to Australia at nine.
Scholarship to the Conservatorium. Top of her class. A rising name in competitive music.
And then: the spiral. Her mother’s death. Her brother’s, shortly after.
Collapse. Withdrawal.
Rehab.
Now—three jobs, late rent, tip jars, wine stains, and wasted potential.
I skim until the end, tapping my finger against the screen before handing it back.
“Rough life,” I say, chuckling. “Jesus.”
Matteo doesn’t respond immediately, just watches her the way one might watch a ticking clock.
“Watch,” I say, eyes narrowing slightly as I step back from the bed. “Watch as she becomes mine.”
Matteo takes the device and bows.
I turn from the room without a second look—until I pause in the threshold. Just a flick of my gaze back to her sleeping form. Still unmoving. Still unaware.
Then the subject changes like a flipped coin in my mouth.
“What meetings do I have today?” I ask casually, walking ahead.
Matteo falls into step behind me. “There’s a sit-down with Don Galluzzi at ten.”
I let out a low laugh. “Galluzzi. Isn’t he the one who swore at my father’s funeral?”
“He called him a parasite in a linen suit.”
“Which is generous,” I murmur. “And what does he want now?”
“Territory clarification. He thinks you’ve stepped into Sydney with too much force.”
“Well,” I hum, stepping into the main corridor that leads toward the eastern receiving hall, “he’ll be pleased to learn I am nothing like my father.”
Marble floors gleam beneath our feet. A row of glass panels to the left looks down over the garden where two guards sweep silently past like shadows on a schedule. The chandeliers above buzz faintly with filtered light, and everything smells like control.
Matteo continues with the briefing, voice clipped: Galluzzi wants numbers. The Spanish want neutrality. The embassy’s mole confirmed three shipments cleared—
Bang.
The main doors burst open.
The sound echoes loudly and final—before a single figure storms into the living hall like a gust of winter wind.
Maksim, my half-brother.
Dressed in black from coat to boots, smooth lines and polished buttons, every inch of him tense. His jaw is locked. His eyes cut toward me the second he enters.
I spread my arms, a lazy smile curling at my mouth.
“Brother,” I say warmly, “how lovely to meet you this fine morning.”
Maksim doesn’t return the smile. His glare is molten.
“My shipments,” he growls. “You stalled them.”
I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest like he’s just insulted my honor at a dinner party. “I would never do that, brother. Is that how you see me?”
He steps forward, shoulders squared. His eyes flick down to my half-buttoned shirt, still wrinkled from earlier. I know how that looks. I know exactly how much it bothers him.
Matteo is immediately between us, not tense, but immovable.
I lift a hand lazily. “Let him beat me if it makes him feel better,” I say, voice soft and mock-wounded. “After all,nothing is stronger than a brother’s love.”
Maksim’s nostrils flare. His entire body looks like it’s vibrating with barely checked fury.
“You slinky snake,” he hisses. “You did this. You had them stall my shipments at the port so you could supply my partner first.”
My face stays a perfect mask of shock, but inside?
Of course I did.
Three days ago, I sent a man to the port authority with a sealed letter claiming Maksim had been underreporting profits. That he was shortchanging the port by nearly seventeen percent over two quarters.
I attached evidence—fabricated, but precise.
Then I sent a bag of gold.
Old-school. Heavy. Delivered in velvet.
Nothing sweetens an insult like nostalgia and profit.
Now his shipments are “under audit” and mine have rolled out like silk across the docks, bound for the same partner. With my seal.
I blink slowly at him. “You wound me.”
“This won’t stop me,” Maksim spits, stepping around Matteo now, pacing like a caged animal. “You think one petty act of sabotage makes you clever? I’m still coming for what’s truly mine.”
I tilt my head. “And what might that be?”
“Everything,” he snaps. “Everything you have—every corner of this house, every contact, every shipment. It's mine. And I am coming for it.”
This war started the day my father died.
Maksim was the first son. Born of the first marriage, proper, public. Groomed for succession. Polished like a blade meant to hang above everyone’s heads. Our father paraded him around like a dynasty in a schoolboy uniform.
And me?
Second wife. Second son. Private, inconvenient. Born with the wrong timing and much of the wrong woman’s fire in my blood.
But I waited.
The day our father’s heart gave out, Maksim wasn’t even on the continent. Because I’d sent him to Canada.
A fabricated meeting. A forged invitation. I knew his greed would bite—he couldn’t resist the idea of locking in an overseas supplier without me. What he didn’t know was that there were three bricks of cocaine sewn into the lining of his suitcase. Enough to trigger every customs alarm they had.
He was arrested the moment he landed.
Held for forty-eight hours. Then transferred to a holding center. His passport was revoked. Investigations. Probes. Delays.
By the time they cleared his name, the funeral had happened.
The burial was over.
And the only son present at the time?
Me.
According to our father’s lawyers, temporary control of the estate falls to the next of kin physically available in the absence of a will. An old rule. Uncontested. Strategic.
But that wasn’t the part that changed the game.
That came after.
When the lawyer stood in my father’s study—oak-paneled, sealed tight with blood—and said, There is a fourth heir.
I remember the moment clearly, the way his voice faltered slightly, like he was afraid the sentence itself would tear open something feral.
We were standing in my father’s study. Dust still on the desk, ash in the fireplace, the scent of cigars that would never be smoked again clinging to the curtains like bad memories.
The air shifted when he said it. A fourth heir.
Not Maksim. Not me. Not his twin sister and my half-sister Mina.
Someone else.
I didn’t know who. Neither did the lawyer—not fully.
Just fragments, hints, records half-buried under layers of sealed files.
But he knew there was a woman. Someone my father had sworn a private vow to.
Someone he'd instructed the lawyer—years ago —to prepare a deed for.
Not in his official register, not even through the firm.
Chiara Falco , the name read.
I’d never heard of her. But I’d seen the way my father sometimes looked east when no one was watching. Like he was still haunted by a ghost with teeth.
The lawyer didn’t want to say more. Said it was sealed. That his hands were tied.
So, I untied them.
It turned out he had a little problem at the casino in Hobart. Owed money to a man who didn’t care about interest rates—only digits and blood. I made that debt vanish in one night. Quietly. No police. No threats.
Just a phone call and a promise that no one would lose fingers.
By the end of that week, the lawyer handed me a folder.
Inside: a scanned deed with my father’s signature. And then name Chiara Falco in cursive. And the clause— all I own, assigned to her or her direct heir, irrevocable upon my death.
I traced her.
She’d gone back to Italy years ago. Married a banker. Lived quietly. Died suddenly.
Only one surviving child.
That’s when the pieces slid into place. Every problem with Maksim, every challenge to my position—all of it could vanish if I turned her into a cornerstone instead of a variable.
She had no idea who she was. No idea what she carried. And that made her perfect .
And now here she is. Beneath my estate. Asleep in my bed. Still dreaming she’s powerless.
She’ll wake up soon. She’ll scream. And then I’ll tell her:
You are the key.
You just don’t know it yet.
“Brother,” I say, spreading my hands like some kind of martyr, “you’re accusing me of wild things. Smuggling. Sabotage. Deception. What next—witchcraft?”
Maksim’s jaw tightens.
I take a slow step toward him, all innocent charm and warm irony. “I promise you, once we find the fourth heir… we’ll settle everything accordingly. Like gentlemen. Like blood.”
His eyes darken, and I watch the way his fists curl—like he’s fighting the urge to bury one in my throat.
“This isn’t over,” he growls. “I will deal with you, Severo. Even if I have to rip this empire out of your hands one bone at a time.”
He turns on his heel and storms out, black coat flaring behind him like a curse.
The silence he leaves in his wake is theatrical.
I place a hand over my heart and turn to Matteo. “How could he think of me like that?” I ask, face twisted in mock betrayal.
Matteo doesn’t blink.
“He and Mina have been searching for the fourth heir,” he says flatly.
I smile wider. “Good thing the heir is with me now.”
I move toward the console by the corridor, fingers brushing the surface absently. My reflection in the black glass stares back—button-down half open, posture easy, grin still in place.
Then I look at Matteo again.
“Look up everyone connected to her,” I say, voice low now. “Phone logs. Friends. Employers. Teachers. Neighbors. Anyone my brother might talk to before he gets to them.”
Matteo nods. “Understood.”
“And Matteo?” I gesture toward his slate-gray suit, all formality and death.
He pauses.
“Wear something pretty for our meeting with Don Galluzzi tonight,” I say, grinning. “Light colors. Ivory. Maybe a warm beige. He needs to see us as harmless.”
Matteo’s jaw tenses.
“Oh, and wipe that frown off your face. You’re scary.”