The ballroom shimmered like it was dipped in blood and gold.
Everything was perfect. Crystal chandeliers catching the light just right, cigars burning slow i ashtrays older than most of the guests, violins humming low in the corners like an ome dressed in satin. And the guests–old mafia families wrapped in silk, diamonds, and mor secrets than a cathedral. Suits, gowns, grudges. Smiles too white to be honest.
I walked in with Dominik at my side.
He wore a classic black tux, clean lines, sharp jaw, colder eyes. I wore black velvet–tight backless, slit high to the thigh. My hair was swept into an elegant twist, my lipstick was murder–red, and my heels clicked like warning shots against marble.
The moment we stepped in, the room hushed. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel it. The weight of power walking in.
Luca waved from the far side, his fiancée tucked at his arm. She was pretty in that educated deadly kind of way. Political heiress. Witty mouth. Eyes like a hawk on espresso. She was perfect for him. That kind of sharp soul who could sip tea and dismantle dynasties in the same breath.
Dominik leaned in and murmured into my ear, “They’re watching.”
“They always are,” I replied, keeping my smile warm and polite. “Let them. I want them to remember who owns the night.”
We made our way to the front where my father–the original Don–sat like a lion on his throne of smoke and legacy. Hair silver, eyes still steel. A man who carved empires with his bare hands and no apologies.
Dominik handed him a box. Inside: a custom–crafted golden dagger. Blade engraved with the Moretti crest. Weighted perfectly for a kill.
My father’s fingers curled around the hilt, testing it like muscle memory never left him.
I kissed his cheek.
“I brought something too,” I whispered, low and sure. “A promise.”
His brow arched, amused. “What kind of promise?”
“No one will ever touch your legacy,” I said. “Not while I breathe. Not while I rule.”
His eyes lingered on me for a long moment. Then he smiled–a rare, dangerous, satisfied kind of
smile.
“You’ve become the thing they all feared,” he said. “My bloodline was worth it.”
I straightened, let the words settle in my bones like armor.
From behind, small fingers tugged at my hand.
I turned. And there he was. My son.
Zeus’s son. Mine now. Ours.
He wore a miniature suit with the buttons a little off and his tie a bit crooked. But his eyes? They
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were soft. Not like his father’s–no. These were curious eyes. Gentle, Watching the world to learn not to dominate.
“Mommy Vannah,” he whispered, gripping my hand. “Can I sit with you now?”
“Of course, baby,” I said, lifting him into my arms. “Always.”
Later, I sat by the fire in one of the side rooms, reading him chess moves from an old leather–bound book. He sat curled in my lap, fiddling with a silver dagger–shaped letter opener. It was dull. But symbolic.
The boy had learned not to cry at storms, not to fear raised voices. He didn’t ask about her anymore. Not about the woman who birthed him and tried to destroy everything that could’ve saved her.
One of the maids lingered at the doorway, watching him. She spoke softly, respectfully. “He doesn’t talk about the past anymore.”
I didn’t look up. I just ran a hand through his hair and kissed his forehead.
“Good,” I said, with calm finality. “The past had no manners.”
He giggled and pointed at the chessboard. “Checkmate.”
I smiled down at him, proud. “Damn right.”
From the other room, I heard laughter and music swelling again, Deals being whispered. Alliances being confirmed. I glanced toward the party, then at the boy in my lap.
Legacy wasn’t just blood. It was choice.
And he chose me.
The envelope came in crimson wax, no return seal, just one word written across the front: Zoraya.
didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. I just poured myself a glass of bourbon, leaned back in the leather chair of my private office, and sliced it open with the tip of my dagger.
Still alive. Still in chains. Still breathing like her lungs hadn’t betrayed her yet.
wasn’t sure if I was annoyed or impressed.
A part of me thought she’d end it herself. Rope, bone, blood–some final act of twisted grace. But 10. The bitch didn’t even flinch in the dark. Just kept rotting. Breathing. Whispering.
So I went.
The underground cell hadn’t changed. Damp air. Low hum of security systems. Cold stone like a orgotten tomb. The guards stepped back the second they saw me–no questions, no words. lust cleared the way like the devil herself was passing.
She sat in the corner, knees to chest, hair matted, skin pale. No makeup now. No silk, no tilettos. Just a woman stripped bare by the choices she couldn’t take back.
She looked up.
Savannah…” Her voice cracked. It wasn’t soft–it was sharp, splintered, full of something between hatred and surrender. “You took everything.”
crouched down in front of her, resting my champagne glass gently on the floor between us. My
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dress didn’t wrinkle. My heels didn’t shake.
I smiled, slow and venomous.
‘No,” I said, tilting my head. “You gave it away.”
She blinked, confused. Delirious. Like her mind couldn’t hold the truth anymore without choking
on it.
‘You tried to kill me. You tried to keep him. You tried to win a war with broken lies and cheaper makeup.” I leaned closer, voice low. “You underestimated the wrong bitch.”
Zoraya’s lips trembled. Her eyes were glassy, but I knew better. That was guilt. Not grief. And
here’s no medicine for that.
stood, smoothed my gown, picked up the unfouched champagne.
As I walked out, I paused at the door. Looked at the guards without even turning my head.
‘Leave her with mirrors,” I said. “Big ones. Let her see what rot looks like.”
The door slammed shut behind me.
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Days passed. Maybe weeks.
