Chapter 25
Tehran, the city of memory and prophecy.
We didn't go back to Italy immediately. Not after visiting the cemetery. Not after spending a few nights with my aunt and uncle Khalighi.
I wasn't ready. Neither was Asvika.
So, we stayed.
The sun was setting over Tehran like it owed me an apology, orange melting into copper, staining the streets like old blood.
Ever since Sanaa died, I’d lost touch with colour in my closet. I had worn black for three days straight, so Asvika gasped like it was a breakthrough when I showed up in navy.
"Mashallah, you look alive," she whispered, half-sarcastic, half-relieved.
"Don't start," I muttered, tugging at the sleeves. "It's not like I'm resurrected."
"Death doesn't scare you anymore?" Zorian asked from behind. He looked out of place, all height and combat stoicism, in a city made of poetry and pistachios.
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. I didn't feel like responding to him anyway.
We walked the streets that night like shadows learning how to dance.
The festival had taken over the city. Lanterns hung from every alley like floating stars.
Women in long coats laughed with henna-stained fingers. I stared at mine, curling them into a fist. Asvika would always make matching henna designs for Sanaa and me.
There were children with ice cream, old men playing cards, and stalls selling everything from handmade knives to turquoise jewellery. I let myself breathe.
For once, no crown. No war. Just air.
No shipments. No guns. Just breathing the air in the land Sanaa was buried in.
Then Asvika spotted it, an alley swathed in red fabrics, lined with candles.
A fortune teller's tent.
"No."
"Oh, we're going in," she declared, grabbing my wrist.
"I don't believe in that stuff," I said, even as my feet followed.
"Then it won't hurt, will it?" She grinned.
Zorian stayed outside, arms crossed like a security detail. I met his eyes for a second. He gave a small nod. I didn't know if it meant go ahead or don't die.
It was fortune-telling, not soul stealing.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and secrets. The woman behind the table looked like she'd lived ten lives. Her eyes were dark. Not black, just...dark. Like if you looked too long, you'd forget your name.
"To ba gham mi ayi," she said in Persian.
You come with grief.
I nodded. "Ve khsham." And rage.
She didn't flinch. "Good. Rage listens."
She paused and then smirked. "Why am I not surprised you understand and speak Persian?"
I raised a brow, "And why am I surprised you can speak English?"
Fucking Fraud.
She pulled out a deck, worn, old, gilded on the edges. Asvika was silent beside me, for once.
The cards flipped one by one.
The Tower.
The Lovers.
The Moon.
The Three of Swords.
And then—
Death.
But reversed.
She froze, her eyes snapping back to me.
I narrowed my eyes. "What does that mean?"
"Someone you buried isn't truly gone."
My breath hitched, my pulse screaming.
How did she know?
She looked at me, her voice suddenly sharp. "You think you know which one. But there are two."
I blinked. "What?"
She flipped another card.
A man in chains. Eyes covered.
The Hanged Man.
"You think they betrayed you before. But they bleed for you now."
What?
Then the last card.
Judgement.
She pointed at me. "One of them will set you free. The other will destroy you. You've already chosen. Your soul knows."
I stared at the table.
Asvika leaned close and whispered in my ear, in Hindi: "Toh faisla kya hai?" (So, what's the decision?)
My fingers trembled. "I don't know yet."
"And the fact that you speak multiple languages already tells me you have the capacity to make the right decision."
The woman smiled, teeth flashing like the blade of a knife.
We dashed out. Literally.
Outside, Zorian was pacing. He looked at me like I'd aged five years in five minutes.
"You okay?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Depends."
"On what?"
"If I believe what I just heard."
He didn't push. Just held the car door open like he always did.
But something about the way his hand brushed mine when I got in, soft, fleeting, told me he knew I didn't come out the same.
Neither did the story.
Asvika kept holding my hand like she was worried I'd fly away.
"Tum theek ho?" she asked in Hindi as we boarded the jet back. Are you good?
I nodded.
Liar.
I didn't care.
The truth was, I hadn't felt like myself since I saw Dominic. His face haunted every mirror.
Every time I blinked, it was there. Him at the party, all calm and collected like he didn't know he'd ripped my world apart with one bullet.
She reached into her bag and handed me the bracelet Sanaa left for me, the one she'd had custom-made before she died. Her initials were in Persian calligraphy, threaded with gold.
?? ??? ??l("In memory of you.")
The plane touched down under the heavy Italian sky, sunlight fractured through stubborn clouds like shards of something broken—maybe hope.
Zorian stood at the airport to greet us, quiet but watchful, as usual. He had taken an earlier flight and gotten here before us, just as I ordered.
The drive to the Versace estate was silent, the kind of silence that screams in your ears.
Asvika sat beside me, fingers intertwined with mine, steady and real.
Pulling up the long driveway, I spotted her before she saw me.
My mother.
Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, a tempest of frustration and relief all at once.
"Finally," she spat the moment I stepped out, voice rough, eyes flashing like a storm.
No softness in her tone, but beneath it, something like welcome.
I didn't care. I dropped my bags and didn't waste a second, hurling myself into her arms.
"Too damn long," she murmured, clutching me tight.
I held on, breathing in the scent of her—jasmine and steel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Asvika approach quietly, and for a moment, my mother's expression softened. She pulled her into a hug too.
"I'm glad you'll be staying with us now, Vika."
"It's my pleasure, auntie."
My mother's eyes flicked between them both; Zorian and Asvika then back to me. "Good. You need people who won't let you fall apart."
I pushed open the door to my room, expecting silence or solitude.
Instead, Mayami was there, arms crossed, tapping her foot like a storm about to break. My eyes narrowed.
"Why do you keep going off without me?" she snapped. "I'm your assistant, Versace. I should be with you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Then why aren't you in the house, hearing my decisions?"
She huffed, frustration pouring out. "Because you told me to stay away! To stay at the company and be useful there!"
I smiled coldly, taking a step closer. I was taller than her, so I could stare her down. "So, you obeyed."
Mayami's eyes flashed, and she stomped her foot. "This is ridiculous. You don't get to shut me out."
I shrugged. "Then quit."
She froze, the fire in her eyes dimming a little. "I swore the oath of Omertà."
"Then what's the problem?" I asked, voice low, leaning closer till our noses almost touched. She was flaring, I almost giggled.
"Go get me some tea."
Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out. I could see the smoke flaring in her ears.
I almost forgot Zorian, who had followed me in, watching the exchange quietly.
"You give her a really hard time."
I sighed and said, "You know how I met Mayami? She was supposed to join the female assassins of the House of Versace, the deadliest in the whole dynasty. But when they handed her a gun she froze."
Zorian blinked, surprised.
"They wanted to kill her for that weakness. Lucky for her, I was there that day, and I said she had better use as my assistant. She may act tough, but she's loyal—if she can keep up."
Zorian smirked. "Sounds like a handful."
I rolled my eyes but smiled. "I like pushing her. Maybe if I push her enough, one day, she may be able to point a gun at me. "
Later that evening, I walked downstairs where Asvika was already with my mother cooking in the-
Wait...
Cooking?
I crashed down the stairs huffing. "Mother, you're cooking?"
Her eyes were fierce as ever. "What? Sit down and set the plates."
The last time I ever ate her food was three years ago and it was because she wanted to show me that I could never be a better cook than her.
I bit back the tears and rushed towards her, hugging her tightly. "Whatever phase this is, Mother, please don't let it pass."
She smiled, warmth flickering through the steel mask she always wore.
"You're pushing it."
We sat and had dinner, Asvika, mother, and I, as we kept every mafia and business-related topic aside and just chatted while we ate.
Was this how a normal family was? I wondered how non-mafia families acted. Did they throw cups at each other? Do they have arranged marriages?
But I will never find out.
Because I wasn't just a regular mafia member. I was the future head of one of the most powerful ones. There was no way I would ever know normal.
But this facade, this dinner. I would rather accept this than nothing.
That night, I stood alone on the balcony of my bedroom, the one that looked over the estate's private lake.
I hated how beautiful it was. How peaceful everything looked when my heart felt like a warzone.
I could hear voices downstairs even though it was near midnight.
Asvika laughed, then spoke to someone in fast Farsi. Then Zorian's deep baritone voice murmured something in Italian.
The mafia was awake, alive, burning beneath the silence.
Just like me.
My phone buzzed, and I peeked to see it was from the Right Mr wrong. I hadn't replied to his earlier messages.
I wasn't going to bother reading these either.
Vika found me curled on the rug, sketchbook open in my lap, but nothing drawn. She didn't speak, just laid beside me and pulled the blanket over both of us.
"She wouldn't have wanted this," she whispered. "You, drowning."
I didn't answer. My throat felt like broken glass.
Asvika grabbed my wrist gently. "He doesn't get to destroy both of you. He already took her."
I turned to her. "What if I want revenge?"
She smirked faintly. "Then get it. But make sure it doesn't eat you up."
Later, Zorian knocked once before entering. He tossed something onto the bed.
It was a file.
Dominic Cassian Moretti.
Photos. Transactions. Blueprints.
I looked up at him. "You've been investigating him?"
His eyes locked with mine.
"If you want to ruin him," Zorian said, voice low, "start here."
And for the first time in weeks, something that wasn’t grief stirred inside me.