Chapter 9
My eyes locked on the photo. The girl’s face was blurred out, but it was real. Confirmed. That name… Angelo Rossini.
I sat up straighter.
Angelo fucking Rossini.
I’d been trying to get in that man’s circle for years. Years. His empire made mine look like a lemonade stand. Old money, real bloodline legacy, the kind of network that doesn’t answer your calls even when you offer seven zeroes. I tried everything–gifts, proxies, whisper deals, even an offer to buy out one of his failing fronts. Nothing. The old bastard never blinked.
And now… this?
He’s got a daughter? One he’s claiming publicly? That’s not just some family news. That’s access. A new opening. If I can get to her, find out who she is, what she wants–I might finally get Rossini’s attention.
“Did they release her name?” I asked Lester, already scrolling.
“No, not yet. Said she’s been in hiding for years. But the press conference is tomorrow in Milan.”
Milan. Of course. Flashy. Loud. Controlled.
Elizabeth leaned over, trying to peek. “Who’s that? Why’s your face so serious?”
I ignored her.
A daughter.
A new player.
Goddamn, what a turn.
I tossed Lester’s phone back at him and stood up, fixing my cuffs. “Get me flights to Milan. Private jet. I want to be in that room before the press conference starts.”
Lester blinked. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, my smile sharp as a blade, “if Rossini’s got a daughter, she’s my next chess piece.”
Elizabeth giggled. “You don’t even know her.”
‘I don’t need to. I know opportunity when I see it. And baby, this one smells like power.”
I was already pacing with my phone, mind running laps around this Rossini headline, when Lester–always the fun sponge–tugged at my sleeve like a kid begging for candy.
“But Dad,” he said, “let’s just enjoy the cruise first. We’re already here, right? Oh, and the press conference got moved. Just saw it in the new post. Apparently, the daughter’s not ready to show herself yet. Said she needs time.”
I stopped mid–step, letting that sink in. “Hmph.” I cracked my knuckles. “She’s smart, then. A little delay builds mystique. Makes people hungry for the reveal. Typical Rossini strategy–make ‘em beg to look behind the curtain.”
I turned back to him and jabbed a finger into his chest–not hard, just enough to remind him who runs this family. “Alright, that’s your assignment, Lester. You keep your eyes on that daughter. I
Chapter 8
5:16 am DDDD
don’t care if she’s hiding in a monastery or under a damn rock, you find out who she is. Dig. I want name, age, photos, education, lovers, enemies, birthmarks, allergies–everything.”
Lester blinked like I hit him with a folder. “Yes, Dad. Got it. I’ll keep tabs. No problem.”
I nodded. “Good. You do that, and maybe I’ll let you shadow me in Milan when the deal goes through.”
He grinned, puffed up like a golden retriever getting a treat. “Thanks, Dad.”
Then his face softened, eyes darting toward the ocean. “Hey uh… you think Ma’s okay at home?” I raised an eyebrow.
“She blocked me,” he added with a weird little laugh. “First time ever.”
“Tch.” I waved him off like a mosquito. “Let that old woman sulk. She’s grown. She’ll be fine. She blocked me, too, remember?” I scoffed, shook my head. “She’s probably pacing her little villa barefoot with some wine bottle thinking that’ll make me call. Typical Doris move. You know how she gets–overdramatic and always waiting for a reaction.”
Elizabeth appeared at the glass doors in that silk cover–up she bought just to twirl in. I raised my glass to her, watching how the light bounced off her skin. Flawless.
“She’s not our concern right now,” 1 said, voice low. “It’s Elizabeth’s birthday. That’s why we’r here. Not for your mother’s theater show.”
Lester chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. You’re right, Dad.”
I turned to him fully, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Of course I’m right. Now loosen up. You’ve got the blood of a king, not a poet. Let’s go party.”
He laughed, and I led the way back to the music, the lights, the world where I’m in control. Where people toast my name. Where the wine’s always cold and women always smile.
Because out here? I’m not someone’s ex.
I’m the man they all want to be.
–
DORIS’S POV
I woke up before the sun, like always. Old habit. Can’t break it, not even wrapped in thousand–thread–count sheets with velvet drapes and morning silence so thick you could bottle it. This estate–my estate now, in name if not yet in spirit–still feels like a dream stitched together with blood money and old ghosts. Every hallway smells like power. My father’s power. I sat up, rubbed my temples, and checked my phone. A new message.
From Edmund’s lawyer.
“Your husband is refusing to sign the divorce papers. Says there’s still time to talk.”
I laughed. Out loud. Like a damn madwoman in a satin robe. He really thought this was some game, didn’t he? Just another tantrum he could outlast. Poor Edmund. He still believed I was the same quiet girl who followed him like a shadow, working three jobs while pregnant just to feed us while he pitched dreams to suits. He forgot I’m Angelo Rossini’s daughter. Or maybe he never knew.
I tossed the phone on the nightstand.
Happy Divorce My Husband!.
5:16 am DDDD
He’ll sign.
Whether his hand is warm or cold when he does… well, that’s up to him.
Before I could think too hard about that, there was a knock–three polite raps. Lucia, our housekeeper. “Miss Doris, your father would like you in the private parlor. He says… it’s urgent.”
Of course he does.
I slipped into something less silk, more steel. Black slacks. Tucked blouse. Hair tied back. I still wore my scars, just not on the skin anymore.
The parlor smelled like cigars and lemon polish. My father sat at the center, leaning on his cane, sharp–eyed and unbothered as ever. But I didn’t notice him first.
I noticed him.
Lucien.
