Chapter 19 Lucia
LUCIA
Giovanni drifts in and out of consciousness, tormenting me when his lashes flutter now and then, and his fingers twitch against the sheets as if he is trying to hold onto something just beyond reach.
And every time he stirs, my chest tightens with hope and dread tangled so closely together I can no longer tell them apart.
The doctors have given up urging me to get some rest.
And today, I only leave his side because there are things to be done.
I kiss his knuckles before I leave him, my mouth lingering there longer than necessary, because part of me believes he can feel it, that somewhere beneath the machines and the drugs and the pain he knows I’m still here, still standing, still refusing to let the world take him from me.
“You rest,” I murmur softly, my voice steady even as my insides twist. “I’ll handle things.”
I don’t know if he hears me.
I choose to believe he does.
The walk from the medical wing to Giovanni’s office feels different today, heavier, quieter, as though the house itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what kind of person will step into power now that the Don cannot rise to claim it himself.
Six men are already waiting when I enter.
They stand when they see me, one after the other, movements crisp and respectful, eyes sharp with calculation and something else that takes me a moment to identify.
Expectation.
I sit in Giovanni’s chair, forcing myself not to be tentative or even apologetic.
And maybe it’s the trace of his scent in the leather, but it boosts me, so I sit the way he does, spine straight, shoulders squared, my hands resting on the desk as if they have always belonged there.
And I let the moment stretch long enough for me to feel the weight of it settle into my bones.
“Here’s what I want to happen in the next twenty-four hours.”
The words leave my mouth without tremor, and when I look up, I see it in their faces immediately, the subtle shift from curiosity to focus, from polite attention to readiness.
I don’t explain myself and I don’t soften my tone.
I tell them what I need, what must be moved, who must be watched, which doors should close and which ones should be left just ajar enough to invite the wrong kind of courage.
I speak calmly, decisively, and when I’m done, silence hangs in the room, thick with understanding.
The head capo, a man with steel-grey hair and eyes that have seen too much blood to flinch easily, steps forward and slams a fist over his heart.
“We won’t let you down, Donna.”
The word lands differently now than it did the first time I heard it whispered in a corridor, then offered cautiously by a doctor who did not know what else to call me.
Donna.
I’m no longer just a wife. Or a girl or a liability.
The term hardens with authority. Responsibility and power.
Something shifts in my chest, something that’s not pride exactly, but resolve, sharp and clean and unyielding.
“I know,” I reply simply, and I mean it. “And I thank you all.”
The meetings that follow are not about me pretending to understand shipping routes or financial instruments I have never studied, but about ensuring that the right men are in the right places, that nothing stalls simply because Giovanni cannot sign his name or glare someone into obedience.
I listen more than I speak. I ask questions that surprise them. I tell one man to slow down, another to move faster, and a third that if he cannot guarantee loyalty then he will be replaced by someone who can.
There’s no argument or questioning. And somewhere between the third briefing and the fourth, I realise that I’m no longer acting.
This is not performance. It’s instinct born of the need to do more than survive this harrowing challenge. It’s the need to fucking win.
When the men return later with a proposal, laying it out carefully as if they expect resistance, I let them finish, then smile.
“Perfect,” I say, folding my hands together. “Get it done.”
Security increases visibly across the estate, guards doubling at the gates, patrols tightening, cameras repositioned to make it look as though we are retreating inward, frightened, hiding behind walls and guns and silence.
Bellandi will read it exactly as intended.
He will think we are afraid.
What he will not see is the quiet planning happening just beneath the surface, the conversations whispered in hallways, the cars that leave the estate without fanfare and do not return right away.
By the time the sun begins its slow descent, the plan is already in motion.
When I receive the phone call I’ve been waiting for, I change clothes deliberately, choosing something simple and dark, my hair pulled back from my face, my posture steady as I walk down the front steps of the house that is no longer just Giovanni’s but mine as well.
The house that feels like home.
The air feels charged, humming with the kind of anticipation that makes my skin prickle.
Headlights cut through the dusk as vehicles pull up in a tight formation, engines idling, doors opening in perfect unison.
My capos step out first, faces unreadable, movements precise.
Then the rear door opens.
They drag her out.
Isabella Bellandi doesn’t look like the woman who threatened me over the phone or made me the butt of her jokes in my own house.
Her composure is stripped away along with the silk and confidence she’s used to wearing like entitlement and armour, her eyes wide with terror as she stumbles forward, restrained but very much awake.
She sees me and freezes, and I savour every expression that shudders across her face.
Shock. Fury. Bewilderment. Then… fear.
I step forward slowly, letting her take me in, the house behind me looming with quiet menace, the men flanking me a reminder that she is very far from anywhere her father’s influence can reach.
“Your father tried to kill my husband,” I say, my voice carrying easily across the space between us. “Now he gets to watch me disembowel you, piece by piece.”
The words land with brutal clarity.
And as Isabella’s breath shudders, as terror finally cracks her polished facade, I accept something with cold certainty.
I did not choose this war.
But I will finish it.
Isabella Bellandi sits exactly where I told them to put her.
Not bound like an animal, not displayed like a prize, but placed deliberately in the centre of a room that strips away every illusion she has ever relied on.
The chair is hard, the basement light unforgiving, the stark grey walls bare enough that there is nowhere for her eyes to land without circling back to me.
I make sure I am already there when she is brought in.
Waiting.
The door closes behind her with a sound that carries weight, and the men step back without instruction, taking up their positions along the walls, silent and immovable.
She looks from face to face, searching for sympathy, leverage, recognition, anything that might remind her she is still someone who matters.
Her gaze lands on me.
It sharpens.
Then it fractures.
I’m not wearing anything dramatic. No silk. No jewels. Just black trousers, a fitted shirt, sleeves rolled back enough to show skin, to show steadiness, to show that I do not need ornament to be dangerous.
The knife rests in my hand openly, present and ominous in a way that makes her breath stutter and crack.
“W-w-what are you going to do with that?” she blurts.
I shrug, slow and rich and endlessly patient. “Depends entirely on you.”
She shakes her head frantically. “I…I don’t know what you’re p-playing at, little girl, but I highly suggest y-you don’t do something you’ll—”
“Shut the fuck up, Isabella. It’s my turn to talk. And your turn to answer when I give you permission. And oh, I’ll be requiring only words from you. You don’t get to scream,” I tell her calmly. “You don’t get to bargain. And you definitely don’t get to pretend this is a misunderstanding.”
Her chin lifts, pride trying to claw its way back into place. “You think you can scare me,” she says, voice shaking despite her effort. “You think because your husband—”
I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
“Say his name again,” I tell her, tone mild. “And I will test how steady your pulse really is.”
Her lips press together.
Good.
I drag the flat of the blade gently along her jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her how close it is, and she sucks in a sharp breath that betrays her far more than words ever could.
“Please… please don’t cut me,” she whispers, the plea to preserve her vanity and her cold beauty, her only commodity, slipping out before she can stop it.
I pause.
Consider.
Then smile faintly. “Hmm,” I say. “I am sorely tempted, but I do not want to catch something.”
The insult lands cleanly.
Her eyes blaze, fury burning through the fear, and there it is, the real Isabella Bellandi, the one who does not crumble easily, the one who has always believed herself untouchable.
“You fucking bitch,” she hisses. “You dare to insult me?”
I laugh, because the sound costs me nothing and costs her everything.
“Oh, don’t pretend now you are above name-calling,” I reply.
“What did you call me last time we met, while you were under my roof, drinking my wine? A Queens whore? You’ve built an entire personality on cruelty dressed up as entitlement.
The very unoriginal Mean Girl? I mean, you couldn’t even come up with fresh material, could you? ”
She jerks against the chair.
“You think you’re better than me?” she snaps. “You walked into a world you don’t understand and took what was meant to be mine.”
I lean back slightly, tilting my head.
“Ah,” I say. “There it is.”
Her nostrils flare.