Chapter 40
There was rarely a non-busy day in my world. Every hour, every second, carried weight.If it wasn't mafia business, it was public business. And today, it was both.
I straightened my posture as I entered the council hall, marble floors gleaming beneath my heels.
The air was thick with cologne, leather, and politics. Ministers lingered around the oval table, some curious, some calculating, others pretending they didn't despise me.
I didn't care. Let them underestimate me. It always worked in my favour.
I slid into the seat beside him. The monster of the room. His laughter rolled across the table like gravel dragged over glass, smooth, heavy, and sharp enough to leave splinters. The suit was perfect, his smirk practiced, his eyes anything but.
He took my drink without asking, sipped it like he was testing my patience.
The Minister of Commerce leaned closer, voice dripping with patronizing charm.
"Wow, Miss Versace," he drawled. "With such perfection, why aren't you married yet?"
I smiled. Tight. Controlled. "Ah, I actually am engaged, sir."
The word engaged sliced my tongue on its way out, small, sharp, and inconvenient.
Every time I said it, it felt like wearing a crown made of thorns. Pride, duty, and irritation, all balanced in perfect agony.
"It seems you've met my future daughter-in-law."
I turned.
Mr. Kashani, Aurelio's father, stood at the far end of the table, giving that politician's smile that never touched his eyes.
"Ah," the minister said, chuckling awkwardly. "To your son? What a union. He must be a lucky man."
Pride. Obligation. Irritation.
My holy trinity.
Pride, because I'd fought to own every inch of my autonomy.
Obligation because alliances like this one weren't built on love, they were built on power.
And irritation, because even after all that, I couldn't get through a single day without the world reminding me how little peace I deserved.
I tried to focus on the meeting. On trade agreements. On law revisions.
But my mind kept drifting, to that day at Dominic's house.
No.
Don't think about that.
The voice in my head snapped like glass. Focus, Versace.
Hours bled into each other.
Regulations. Shipments. More laws. I nodded when required, spoke when necessary, and observed everything, from the aide sneaking glances at me, to the nervous pen-tapping of another minister, to the gleam of a ring that probably had a story of its own.
Mr. Kashani spoke animatedly across the room.
I sat opposite, trapped beside the Minister of Commerce, a man who smelled like corrupt ambition and cheap arrogance.
Somewhere between his lecture on tariffs and taxes, I glanced at my phone under the table.
Sanaa.
Sanaa: Habibi, when you get home, I'm ready to tell you and Asvika everything. I don't want secrets between us.
The words made me freeze.
For a heartbeat, the noise of the hall dissolved. My chest filled with something too warm, too human.
Even here, surrounded by men who'd sell their souls for a contract, I smiled. Just slightly.
Everything.
She wanted to tell me everything. No more secrets. No more walls.
I typed quickly:
I'll be home soon. Don't start without me.
Send.
And for the first time all day, my heart felt a fraction lighter.
The meeting finally adjourned.
Polite bows. Forced smiles. A dozen empty goodbyes.
I walked out, guards flanking me as sunlight spilled across the marble steps. My phone buzzed again, ignored. My mind was already spinning through schedules and upcoming shipments.
Then, a flicker. That quiet instinct that never lied to me.
Zorian slipped into the second car. I nodded to him, then turned to the first.
My driver stood waiting, professional, neutral, forgettable. Until I saw it.
A tattoo.
On his hand.
Not one of the House of Versace Syndicate marks.
My brow creased. "New driver?" I asked casually.
He nodded once, curtly. "Yes, ma'am."
Weird. But fine. I brushed it off.
The car hummed to life, city lights slicing through the tinted glass as we drove. I scrolled through shipment documents, forwarding approvals, and skimming contracts.
But something was off.
The rhythm of the drive. The silence. The route.
I knew these streets, every turn, every checkpoint. And this wasn't the way home.
My pulse quickened.
I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes late. Then twenty.
"Where exactly are we going?" I asked, tone calm but clipped. "This isn't the way to the estate."
The driver didn't answer.
The guard beside me shifted slightly, his gaze meeting mine in the window reflection.
Cold. Calculating. Not the usual kind of professional.
My stomach dropped.
"Stay calm, Miss Versace," he said finally, voice too even. "No one has to get hurt."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Shit.
Oh, shit.
Panic curled through my chest, slow and insidious. I couldn't let it take hold. Not now. Not when Sanaa was waiting. Not when everything depended on me staying sharp, aware, alive.
I scanned the car, calculating.
The window, my hidden weapon, every possible escape route ran through my head. My fingers trembled slightly as I forwarded a last batch of documents. Adrenaline, not fear, I told myself. Stay calm. Observe. Plan. Act.
The car swerved. I unbuckled my seatbelt, yanked the door open, and rolled onto the asphalt.
Pain shot through my side, hands scraping the rough ground. I pushed up, scanning the empty streets. Too remote. Too quiet.
Black-clad figures emerged from the shadows, moving like phantoms. I lunged for my weapon, but they were faster, stronger, and coordinated. Every escape route was cut off.
"Wow. All of you for one woman? No shame?" I spat, swinging, jabbing, elbowing.
Each strike landed, a spark of defiance, but they regrouped instantly. Pain flared in my ribs, my side, my head. I hissed through gritted teeth.
Behind me, the second car slid into view. Zorian restrained and sedated, locked eyes with mine for a fraction of a second. I wanted to run to him, fight alongside him, but he was trapped. I was alone.
"VERSACE!" His voice strained, urgent, powerless.
I forced myself up, swinging, kicking, biting back screams. My side throbbed, ribs screamed, hands scraped raw, but my mind was razor-sharp. I am Versace. I will survive.
They adapted instantly, countered every strike.
A punch to my ribs stole my breath. I rolled to avoid a blade, head smashing the asphalt. Stars exploded. My hands clawed at the grit.
Still, I refused to give in. My eyes found Zorian again, taut in restraints, struggling. My chest tightened. I'll protect you. I will not let them win.
They dragged me backward, twisting my arm. Pain shot through my shoulder. I cried out, thrashing, clawing at uniforms, anything.
Inside, Sanaa's words echoed: "Habibi, I don't want secrets between us."
I drew a ragged breath, coiling every ounce of fury, defiance, and survival instinct inside me. I will fight. I will survive. For her. For Zorian. For myself.
Elbows, kicks, punches, but they barely staggered. I grabbed wrists, slammed bodies against asphalt. Each movement was a gamble. One wrong step, and I'd be down. But hesitation was death. I couldn’t hesitate.
A blade slashed toward my side.
I twisted, drove my knee into a stomach, pulled the attacker down, lungs burning.
Shadows surrounded me, strikes coming from every angle. I jabbed, kicked, twisted, anything to buy a fraction of time.
A sharp strike to the back of my head sent stars blooming behind my eyes. Pain lanced through my skull. Voices murmured, distant, casual.
"She's strong, very strong."
"Why would you hit her head? The eyes, she's still a mafia heir."
"What would you have had me do?"
Their words burned more than any fist. They wanted me broken. Controlled. Taken. They would not have it.
Pain stabbed my ribs, my head spun, but I twisted, elbowing shoulders, rolling, striking again. Every move was precise, controlled, despite every scream my body sent.
Another strike to the head rocked me. I stumbled, vision tilting. But I forced myself upright. My fists, boots, elbows, my only weapons. My only hope.
And I collapsed.
Was this Karma for being in the mafia?