Chapter 3 Mia
MIA
Outside, the sky held its bruised pre-dawn hue, and a low rumble rolled across the city.
My gaze drifted to the vase of roses on my vanity.
The petals curled inward, edges browned, their beauty collapsing.
Yet again, that man invaded my dreams. I rose and crossed to the window.
Downstairs, there was the faintest shuffle—voices hushed.
Business before sunrise. So much for peace.
My father’s words from last night came to mind, steady and dangerous: We don’t need an alliance which means you are free to marry who you wish.
Maybe he believed that when he said it. Maybe he even meant it. But in our world, love and leverage were the same currency; the exchange rate just changed with the blood on the floor. So forgive me if I didn’t believe it.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
Please, let today stay quiet. But quiet was never permanent. Not here.
By the time I reached the corridor outside the dining room, espresso wafted around. Two of my father’s lieutenants stood near the doorway.
“Russo’s men didn’t make it back,” one murmured.
“No survivors at the foundry,” the other replied. “Di Fiore hit them before dawn.”
The first man noticed me and straightened so fast his chair scraped the floor. “Ms. Moretti.”
The second followed suit. “Your father is waiting.”
They parted to let me pass, conversation dying mid-breath. Silence trailed me into the dining room. My father sat at the head of the long table, reading the morning paper. A silver coffee service gleamed beside him.
“Morning,” he said without taking his eyes off of the paper. “You are up rather early, my dear.”
“I would have loved a couple more hours, but I heard the ruckus down here.” I slid into my seat.
“Business never sleeps. You’ll learn that one day.”
I stirred my coffee though I had no intention of drinking it. “I heard names in the hall. Russo. Di Fiore. Something about a foundry.”
The paper rustled. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
“You shouldn’t keep secrets.”
He lowered the page then, and the smile was practiced, the kind that could negotiate a treaty or conceal a threat. But also scared the shit out of me. Sometimes I forgot the things he did. That even though he was my father, the other side of him had plenty of blood on his hands.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Nothing for me to worry about. The same phrase he used when our cousins went missing last spring, when a body turned up by the docks. His calm always meant someone else’s disaster.
“I’m not a fucking child.”
“No, you’re my daughter. Which is why you’ll stay out of this.”
He returned to his paper as though the conversation had never happened.
The morning burned itself into a hard, bright noon. Sunlight poured over the estate. I needed air.
The gardens were immaculate. Every hedge trimmed to obedience, every rosebush pruned. I knelt beside the nearest one, letting my fingertips brush a bloom the color of spilled wine.
Perfection is just another cage.
A thorn caught my skin. A bright bead of blood welled against the petal. I pressed my thumb to it, red stained the white lace of my sleeve. The sting was small, grounding.
That was the problem with this life: pain was the only thing that still felt real.
Somewhere beyond the garden, engines growled.
Enrico Di Fiore.
I should hate the name. It should taste of everything that threatened my family.
Instead, it lingered. I could still feel the imprint of his hand at the small of my back, the way he guided me across that ballroom floor.
The warmth of him seeped through silk and skin, past caution, straight into the place where reason lived.
He’s dangerous. He’s everything you promised yourself you’d never want.
And yet … When I closed my eyes, the music returned—the waltz threading through memory, his breath at my temple, that voice roughened by power and patience.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of roses and something faintly metallic. I was shaking. Not from fear—something far more treacherous.
I don’t want this. But the lie of it ached. I wanted to feel alive. Even if it meant wanting the man who could ruin me.
Evening slipped in, I hadn’t left the garden for hours; by the time I returned inside, the house was quieter.
Dinner never happened. No servants set the table, no music drifted from the parlor. Only the low hum of security radios echoed faintly through the corridors, each burst of static too loud.
Something was coming.
I found my father in the foyer, coat already on, speaking to one of his men. Both stopped when their eyes caught me. A black car idled at the base of the front steps, headlights cutting long bars of light across the floor.
“Where are you going?”
He hesitated just long enough to confirm everything I feared. “An important meeting.”
“With who?”
“The Di Fiore family requested an audience.”
The name hit like a spark. Every thought emptied out of me until only his name remained. Enrico.
My father gestured toward the stairs. “Go upstairs. This isn’t for you.”
“No,” I said before I could stop myself. “You said you wouldn’t—”
“I said I would protect you,” he interrupted. “And I will. Which is why you’ll stay out of sight.”
The driver opened the door; my father turned away, already gone in every way that mattered. The slam of the car door echoed through the foyer, then the low growl of the engine carried him into the night.
I stood in the emptiness he left behind.
He was going to see Enrico Di Fiore.
Whatever storm Enrico unleashed last night was now rolling straight toward my door.