CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The storm has passed, but its ghosts remain.
Ari
I lean against the wrought-iron railing of the balcony, my fingers tracing absent patterns over the cold metal as the cool air brushes against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and the last traces of rain.
My body feels heavy, and I notice something strange…it’s quiet.
No gunfire. No whispered threats. No bodies hitting the floor. Just the steady rise and fall of my breath in the cool morning air.
It should feel like a relief.
Instead, it feels like the sharp edge of something unfinished.
The threats haven’t disappeared, but for the most part, the war is over. Giovanni is dead. Sal is dead. The alliance has held.
And yet, as I stand in this unfamiliar home, I know that my own battle is about to begin. I have to decide where I fit in this world now that I’m no longer fighting for a place in it.
I picture my husband’s beautiful face and the way his hands wrapped around mine last night, firm but careful, as if I was something both dangerous and necessary.
For so long, I have been someone’s responsibility. A Bianchi daughter. A strategic pawn. A wife given to seal an alliance. But now?
Now, for the first time in my life, I am something else.
Something of my own making.
A sharp knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I turn as Mila steps inside, her brows bunched together. “Your mother is downstairs.”
The words hit like a strike of lightning.
I straighten and walk inside. “My mother?”
Mila nods. “She arrived ten minutes ago. Told me to serve her coffee.” She pauses. “I don’t think she came here to fight.”
I laugh, sharp and dry. “Then she must be lost.”
Mila doesn’t smile. She just waits.
I inhale slowly, letting the cool air steady me. Donatella Bianchi does not visit. She commands. She demands. She summons.
If she is here, on my turf, she wants something.
And for the first time, I am no longer a girl desperate to earn her approval.
I head toward my closet, already deciding how this is going to play out. “Have them serve her another cup,” I say. “I’ll be down shortly.”
When I enter the room, Ma is waiting with a tight smile on her face. She sits perfectly poised on the white velvet settee, a porcelain cup balanced in one manicured hand. The sunlight slants through the windows, catching on the pearl buttons of her dark blazer, turning her into something statuesque. Composed. Distant.
Just like she always is.
The only sign that she doesn’t quite belong here is the way her gaze flicks over the room, taking in the space like an enemy’s battlefield.
She looks up when I stop in the doorway.
“To what do I owe this visit, Ma?” I keep my voice cool, even.
A long pause. Then, the faintest tilt of her head. “You look well.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I suppose the rumors about a tear in the space-time continuum are true.”
Her lips press together, and for the first time, something almost like hesitation flickers in her expression.
“I heard what happened.” She sets her cup down with a delicate clink. “I wanted to see if you were injured.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “The sudden concern is out of character.”
To my shock, she doesn’t deny it. She just exhales softly, her gaze sharpening. “I showed you love the only way I knew how.”
Something about those words sinks under my ribs, settling there. Love. She calls it love. The coldness. The expectations. The relentless, sharp-edged lessons.
I should scoff. I should let it roll off me like water on glass.
But instead, I stare at her, really look at her. At the fine lines etched around her mouth. The exhaustion she hides well but not perfectly. The way she grips her own wrist—an unconscious tic, one I recognize from childhood, when the weight of my father’s expectations pressed down on her, too.
And I accept for the first time that she never knew how to love me any differently .
She thought she was making me strong.
She didn’t realize I was already unbreakable.
“I was wrong about you,” she says finally. “You are much stronger than I could ever be.”
The words are not an apology. But they are something. A small truce. A piece of understanding between two women who have both spent their lives trying to survive the world that made them.
“Power is never stable,” she continues, her voice softer now. “So now is the time to decide what kind of life you want before someone else decides for you.”
I hold her gaze, then nod once. “I plan on doing just that.”
Ma studies me for another long moment. Then, in true fashion, she rises, smooths out the front of her blazer, and heads for the door.
No embrace. No drawn-out goodbye. Just an understanding.
And for the first time, that’s enough.
Later that afternoon, I head toward the gym at the end of the garden, letting the crisp air clear my thoughts.
I don’t hear footsteps at first.
But I hear them .
The unmistakable sound of paws on stone, a quiet huff of breath, the soft jingle of metal tags.
I stop in my tracks as Pasha appears at the edge of the path, two large German Shepherds at his side.
I blink. “What—?”
“Boss says these are yours now.” Pasha extends two leashes, his face unreadable as always. “For protection.”
I stare at the dogs—massive, sleek, their dark eyes watching me with intelligence. They don’t bristle or growl. They wait. Do they recognize me as theirs before I have even spoken a word?
“I hope they don’t expect Russian commands.”
“Dmitri taught them English.” He strokes the head of the small dog. “This one is friendly and might want to become a lap dog.”
A slow smile tugs at my lips as I kneel, reaching out a hand. They both sniff my palm, then press their nose against my wrist in silent acknowledgment.
“My husband is determined to stay in my good graces.”
Pasha clears his throat. “I told you when you arrived that he wants you to be happy.”
I look up. “Yes, Pasha, you did.”
He shifts slightly as the corner of his mouth lifts. “They’ll follow your commands. They’re trained to be loyal. To protect.” He pauses. “If you don’t want both, I can take one back.”
I glance up at him, then at the dogs.
I scratch behind the ear of the second shepherd. “I’ll keep them both.”
“Good.” Pasha takes a step back. “The bigger one is Hades, and the smaller one is Persephone.”
Laughing, I remember when I first called my husband Hades. “Does that mean Maxsim named them?”
“I don’t think so. Dmitri usually gives the dogs their names based on personality.”
I stroke both of the dog’s head and smile. Hades stays still, his massive frame coiled like a loaded gun, studying me with quiet intelligence. The smaller but no less powerful Persephone leans into my touch immediately, a quiet huff of breath escaping her as if she’s already chosen me as hers. “Well, I think they are perfect.”
“Good.” He tips his head and then stalks back toward the house.
“Let me show you two around your new home.” I unlatch their leashes, and they flank me as I walk toward the far end of the garden.
Feeling calm, I remind myself to be grateful that the battle is over. The war, of course, will never end. That’s just part of our lives.
But my place in all of it…that’s a story that’s still being written.
A slow smile pulls at my lips as the dogs explore the gardens. For the first time in my life, I’m not just someone’s daughter. Or someone’s pawn.
I’m something else entirely.
And I can’t wait to see what that will be.