Chapter 7 – Calista
The dress is too soft. Too light. It clings to my skin and looks like it’s meant to be worn by a woman who still believes in freedom. I’m not her.
The sundress had been laid out for me this morning, along with a pair of delicate sandals that feel ridiculous on my feet. But I put it all on anyway. What choice do I have? Rebellion isn’t always loud. It isn’t fists and fury. Sometimes, it’s showing up stone-faced—refusing to flinch.
I tell myself I couldn’t give less of a damn—not about the dress, the fake hospitality, or the asshole who ordered it. Lazaro’s face flashes in my mind. The blood on his arm. The way he stood in front of me. The way his eyes found mine across the ballroom.
I bite my lip in frustration. I don’t care. I couldn’t care less.
Now I’m walking through what looks like a place out of a luxury magazine—except I know better. The Virelli gardens are manicured to perfection, all roses and jasmine, climbing ivy and stone fountains. But beneath the surface, everything feels hostile. It’s the kind of place where a body could vanish under a flowerbed and no one would ever know.
Lucrezia walks beside me, her heels barely clicking on the cobblestone path. She’s in a cream silk blouse and tailored slacks, gloves on her hands and that sharp, elegant smile on her face. The kind that makes you wonder what she’s hiding behind it.
"In our world," she says smoothly, not even looking at me, "beauty is a distraction, charm is a blade, and silence is the loudest threat."
"So I’m supposed to smile and bat my lashes while I gut someone with a metaphor?" I ask dryly.
She glances at me, amused. "If done right, they won’t even feel the blade until it’s buried."
I cross my arms. "Great. Just what I wanted. Killer etiquette lessons."
"This is survival training, Calista," she says, turning down a shaded path. "And survival isn’t enough anymore. You want to win, you learn to dominate. Think of last night as a lesson—just the beginning."
I hate that the words resonate. That somewhere deep inside, I already know she’s right.
We stop near a wrought-iron gazebo covered in flowering vines. She pulls a file from her handbag—because of course she has a file—and hands it to me.
"You’ll start by learning to read a room," she says. "Body language. Voice control. How to tell when someone’s lying without them even realizing they are."
"So I’m becoming a mafia therapist now?"
"You’re becoming a queen," she replies evenly. "But only if you stop wasting your fire on petty defiance. You have the potential to own the room, not just survive it."
I stare at her, unsure whether to laugh or curse my heart out.
"Tell me something," I say, flipping through the file. "Why do you even care?"
Lucrezia’s eyes light up.
"Because I see myself in you," she answers quietly. "And because I’ve already lost too many women to this world who didn’t know how to play it."
For a second, she doesn’t look like a queen of ice and strategy. She looks like a woman who’s been through hell and clawed her way out with manicured hands and a sharpened smile.
"There was a time," Lucrezia begins, her voice low and smooth, "when a rival Don thought I was nothing more than decoration. A pretty thing to drape over his arm."
I raise an eyebrow. "He must’ve been blind. You don’t exactly scream ornamental."
"He was arrogant," she replies with a shrug. "Thought he was clever. Thought he had me wrapped around his finger. So I let him think that. I played the role—smiled, whispered sweet nothings, wore the dresses he liked."
"You were his mistress?" I ask, surprised.
"On the surface," she says, a glint in her eye. "But while he was parading me around, I was learning his network—his vulnerabilities, his patterns. I knew who controlled the money, who handled the shipments, who could be bought with the right whisper."
"And he had no clue?"
"None," she says, lips curling slightly. "By the time I was done, his empire was a hollow shell. He didn’t even realize I’d pulled the strings until his own men turned on him."
I shake my head slowly. "You dismantled an entire empire playing dress-up."
She smiles, adjusting her glove. "And when it was done, I poured his favorite wine and watched from the balcony as his men dragged him out in chains."
"Damn," I breathe.
"Exactly," she says. "Now. Pay attention. There’s more to learn."
And just like that, the lesson continues.
Lucrezia turns and walks deeper into the garden, and I follow her down a path lined with marble statues and lanterns shining in the late morning light. It smells too sweet, like jasmine and roses. The path twists until we reach a wrought-iron gate covered in climbing vines. Beyond it, a sprawling estate stretches out—a grand structure hidden from the outside world, tucked neatly behind the garden’s beauty. It's massive, elegant in a quiet, intimidating way. Inside, the halls are cool and polished, lined with tall windows and shadowed corners. A few guards stand at intervals, nodding subtly as Lucrezia passes. Servants move quietly in the background, carrying trays, adjusting curtains, polishing surfaces. Lucrezia nods at a few of them, her confidence commanding the space like she owns it.
She leads me further down a long corridor inside the estate, past more rooms dressed in polished marble and gold accents, until we reach a spacious parlor room. There's a velvet sofa near a large window, soft light filtering in through sheer curtains. "Sit," she instructs, nodding toward the seat. "We’ll go over conversational tactics next. When to speak, when not to, and how to let others underestimate you just enough."
I drop onto the sofa, file in hand, still trying to process everything. I glance at her sideways. "You really think this is going to make a difference?"
She smirks, unbothered. "Let’s see."
Lucrezia settles on the sofa beside me, legs crossed elegantly. Hours pass, marked only by the soft tick of the antique clock in the corner and the shuffle of papers as she layers one lesson over another. Syndicate etiquette, strategic reading, hidden signals, veiled threats—each word drills into my mind. My head is spinning by the end of it, but I grit my teeth and keep listening, trying to absorb it all. Every tactic, every nuance—because I’m done being underestimated.
After what feels like years of training, Lucrezia finally sets the file aside and rises from the sofa. "I think I’ve taught you enough to deal with a negotiation," she says with a small, satisfied nod.
We make our way through the estate. Eventually, we reach one of the estate’s inner chambers where a mock negotiation exercise has been arranged. Two lower-ranking guards are already seated at the table, playing the roles of rival capos, smugness plastered across their faces. The script is simple: I’m supposed to secure a deal using tact, observation, and influence.
I try to channel what she’s taught me—watch the body language, read the tone, study the silence. But I miss a hand signal. A subtle one. A flick of the wrist passed between the two guards. Before I can process what just happened, one of them pretends to pull a gun and “shoots” me.
Without missing a beat, Lucrezia says, “Dead.”
I blink, frozen. The men smirk.
She walks over, arms crossed. "Intelligence without restraint is recklessness."
I grit my teeth. "It was one mistake."
"And in our world, one mistake is all it takes."
She resets the scenario. I try again. This time, I catch the signal—but miss the timing. The guards fake another execution. Again, and again. Each round, I fail a different way. I can feel my heart rate increasing with every repetition. With anger. With frustration.
"Your instincts are sharp, but your pride gets in the way," Lucrezia says flatly. "Control that, or it will get you killed."
"I’m trying," I snap.
"Trying isn’t good enough here."
Something in me cracks. I shove back from the table, fists clenched. "Then maybe find someone else to play your perfect little pawn."
Lucrezia doesn’t move. "You’ll never be a pawn, Calista. But right now, you’re not ready to be queen either."
That’s it. I storm out of the room before I say words I’ll regret.
Out in the garden again, I find a bench under a blooming tree and sit. The flowers around me are delicate, soft. A stark contrast to the rage curling in my chest.
I look down at my arms. The straps of the dress leave my tattoos exposed—dark ink against pale skin, defiant and unhidden. They have no place in this world of polished marble and delicate roses. But then again, neither do I. Not with this silk, not with these flowers. But belonging isn’t the point. Survival is. Power is.
Eventually, I stand and head back inside. Lucrezia is still in the chamber, going through that damn file.
I walk straight up to her. "Teach me again," I say, voice low but certain. "This time, I won’t miss."
She looks at me, nods once, and sets the file down.
"Good," she says. "Let’s begin."
XXX
Back at the penthouse, I’m exhausted. The day’s lessons, the failures, the whole mess—it just hangs over me, weighing me down. I try to sleep, but I can’t. My mind won’t shut off. Lucrezia had informed me that the guards stationed outside my door had been removed. "But don’t do anything stupid," she’d said coolly. "They’re still all over the place."
She wasn’t lying.
I feel like even the walls are watching me. Which they are, considering the fucking cameras in every corner of my room.
I go downstairs and wander through the halls aimlessly until I end up in the private gallery. The space is hushed and dim, portraits lining the walls in eccentric and extravagant frames. Old Virelli ancestors stare down with glassy eyes and painted power.
One portrait catches my eye—elegant, poised, serene. A woman with eyes like Lazaro’s. Sharp, but somehow gentle too.
"She died when I was twelve," a voice says behind me. I didn’t hear him approach. Lazaro stands a few feet away, his figure framed by the low gallery lighting. His dark shirt clings to him in places, and there’s a tiredness in his posture that wasn’t there earlier. His hair’s a bit messy, his face hard to read—but he looks somewhat calmer tonight, like everything’s finally starting to hit him. He walks over to me, taking his time, his eyes settling on the portrait I’ve been staring at.
"Poisoned in our estate."
I glance back at the portrait. "How did it happen?" I ask, my voice quieter than I expected. "I’m sorry."
"My father," he says simply. There’s no need for more explanation. The way his tone lands says it all. "Don Corrado didn’t believe in softness. Not even for his wife."
I know that name. No one lives in this world without hearing stories about Don Corrado Virelli. Ruthless. Harsh. Even my uncle, cruel and brutal in his own right, admired Don Corrado. That’s saying something. If there’s a blueprint for fear, it’s carved in the shape of that man’s legacy.
"You cared about her," I say softly.
He meets my gaze, and his eyes have softened. I can see the memories playing in his mind. "She used to sing in the evenings," he murmurs, voice lower now, as if admitting it chips away at some armor. "She loved the piano. My father hated music. Said it made people weak."
"That’s not weakness," I say softly.
He lets out a humorless breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You try telling that to Don Corrado."
For a second, it feels like we’re not enemies. Just two people haunted by ghosts.
Then he pulls away, the wall snapping back into place.
"Don’t mistake curiosity for closeness," he says, tone sharper now. "You’re not here to fix me."
Suddenly, the distance between us stings. But I keep it buried. Because I know what it feels like to lose a mother. Mine was murdered in front of my father’s eyes—because he was too stubborn to surrender power. The difference was, my father loved her. It destroyed him. That kind of grief never really leaves—it just digs deeper. And maybe that’s why Lazaro’s pain feels familiar.
I return to my room alone.
Today’s training was supposed to make me feel empowered. But now, I feel hollow.
He opened the door to his pain—and slammed it shut again.
I’m not sure what scares me more—that I’m starting to understand him… or that part of me wants to.