Chapter 149: The Woman Who Ruins Everything

Vittorio POV

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was her.

Katarina. Curled on her side, breathing soft, her hair scattered over my pillow like it had always belonged there. One bare shoulder peeked from under the blanket, pale in the early light. She didn’t even stir when I shifted.

For a few seconds, I just looked at her. Something low in my chest tightened — like someone had their hand in there and was twisting it.

Then last night began coming back in pieces. Not all of it — just flashes, blurred like a smudged photograph.

The champagne on my tongue.

Her scent — not jasmine, not roses — the kind of clean warmth that clings to a woman after she’s been asleep.

Then another scent, sharper, sweeter. Jasmine. Fiorella’s scent.

I remembered leaving this bed. I remembered going to Fiorella’s room.

I’d gone to warn her. To ask her why she was here, why now. I told her to stay out of sight today. It wasn’t just any day — it was the campaign shoot for my election. Media everywhere. One photo in the wrong place could sink me.

She’d smiled. Said something I couldn’t remember.  Or maybe I didn’t want to. My memory blurred there, like someone had smudged the film.

But I remembered coming back. Seeing Katarina asleep again. And watching her long enough that my chest ached.

That ache was why I’d gone to Fiorella.

The house was already awake.

By the time I was dressed, the estate felt like a war zone — not with guns, but with cameras and chaos. Voices bounced off the marble. Laughter in one corner, arguments in another. The air smelled like hairspray, coffee, and nerves.

The grand staircase opened into a sea of movement.

Lighting rigs were being dragged across the floor. Two assistants carried garment bags bigger than them. The sound crew tested mics by shouting numbers over each other. Outside the tall glass doors, I could hear the faint roar of reporters waiting.

Salvatore was across the room, suited up in charcoal, gesturing with a hand while chewing on something that looked like a pen cap. He was giving instructions to a nervous-looking photographer.

. Near the windows, two sound guys wrestled with cables. The big glass doors were already open for the morning light, letting in the hum of waiting reporters outside the gates

I scanned the room for Ghost. Found him leaning against a pillar near the back, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning like he was counting exits.

I jerked my chin at him. “Walk.”

We moved down one of the quieter hallways.

“Anything on the people who hit Pietro and Luce?” I asked without slowing.

Ghost shook his head. “Nothing. These people… they’re clean. Smooth. No crumbs. You can tell they’re trained. Military, maybe.”

I gritted my teeth. “And the French Minister’s phone?”

“Gone dark. New number. Means he knows he’s being tracked.”

We stopped in the shadow of a tall window, light cutting across the floor like stripes. “And Luce?” I asked.

Ghost’s jaw ticked. “Still missing.”

I swore under my breath. The curse that ripped out of me made two assistants glance over and then quickly look away.

“Keep Fiorella away from this side of the estate,” I told him. “Today’s not the day for her to pull stunts.”

His mouth twitched, but not into a smile. “You know I can’t handle her.”

“She’s just a woman, Ghost.”

He snorted. “No. She’s Fiorella. Hurricanes have a warning system. She doesn’t.”

I almost smirked. Almost.

We locked eyes for a moment. He wasn’t wrong. Ghost and Fiorella used to be close back  back when she was in my bed, in Valentino’s bed, in both our lives. That was another lifetime. One I didn’t have time for today. Now even he kept his distance.

“Man of the hour!”

Salvatore’s voice was too loud, too cheerful. He strode over, smelling like expensive cologne and fresh paper money.  his grin split like a politician’s. . His cologne hit first — sharp, expensive — then his handshake.

I didn’t waste time. “

“Who’s the special guest the Minister’s delivering the relic to?” I asked before he could start small talk.

He blinked, the smile faltering for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know.”

I stared. “ Bullshit.Try again.”

“Not this time. I don’t know,” he said firmly. “And I don’t want to.” His eyes darted to the floor. “The Minister’s scared of him. That’s all I got.”

I stared, waiting. People like Salvatore always had more if you pressed.

He finally leaned in just enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath. “Word is… this ‘guest’ doesn’t just want the relic. He wants something that belongs to you.”

My jaw tightened. “And what’s that?”

“Don’t know.” He straightened, voice light again, but the flicker in his eyes stayed. “But whatever it is… he’ll get it.”

My chest felt colder than the morning air outside.

That told me more than I liked. If Salvatore feared this man more than me, it meant trouble with no face — and no rules.

“Vittorio, over here!”

The garden steps were set up for the shoot — white chairs, a backdrop of red roses, sunlight streaming like someone had ordered it. I stepped into the frame, ignoring questions about policy, about rivals, about anything that didn’t have a lens attached to it.

A camera flash went off. The air was cooler outside, but the heat of the crowd made it thick.

I smiled when I had to. I adjusted my cufflinks. Avoided every question about family.

Then—

The crowd shifted before I saw her. Heads turned. Cameras tilted. The kind of ripple that happens when someone walks in who knows they’ll be watched.

Then she stepped into view.

Fiorella.

For a split second, I thought she’d come for me. The way her eyes locked on mine first — like this was private, like the noise around us didn’t exist — made my stomach twist.

She stood just beyond the roses, sunlight catching her hair like she’d planned it. A soft breeze lifted the hem of her dress. Her lips curved in a smile she knew cameras couldn’t look away from.

“Vittorio,” she said softly, just for me. A smile that belonged to a memory.

Then she turned her head, voice carrying like a bullet. “Our daughter.”

And she was holding Suzy.

“My daughter,” she said to the nearest reporter, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Our daughter.”

The words didn’t just land — they detonated.

The garden erupted. Flashes went off like gunfire. Questions poured in from every direction.

I felt the shift in the air. My chest tightened.

“Vittorio, is this true?”

“Were you hiding a child?”

“Does this mean a reunion?”

“Are you engaged?”

Possibly we could. That was the next thing out of her mouth. She said it like she was reading it off a press release.

I felt Salvatore stiffen somewhere behind me. I scanned for Ghost. Found him pushing through the press, trying to reach her., his face like stone.

Reporters started shouting over each other

And Fiorella wasn’t finished.

She turned her head slightly toward the biggest camera, smiled like the devil on Sunday, and said, “I’ve moved my things into Vittorio’s room. I’ll be staying there from now on.”

For one beat, everything went quiet. Even the reporters seemed to need a second to process it. The garden fell silent for one brief, sharp beat.

I stepped forward slowly, my voice even but edged. “What about Katarina?”

Her eyes found mine. Held them.

Then she smiled wider. “What about her things?” she asked.

The way she said it — like it was a joke she’d already won — made the back of my neck burn.

She smiled wider. “What about her things?” Her tone was playful, but her eyes weren’t.

She stepped closer, just enough for me to hear the next part over the noise. “Or do you want me to tell you… where she’ll be sleeping instead?”