Chapter 151. Burn Her Before She Burns You.

Chapter 151. Burn Her Before She Burns You.


Katarina POV
“Don’t tell me to leave, Kat.”
Selena’s voice cracked through the morning air. She stood with her suitcase by the gates, her hair pulled back tight, lips pressed thin.
 Behind her, the driver leaned on the car, waiting. The iron gates were half-open, and from this far you could already hear the faint buzz of reporters from the other side of the estate.
I folded my arms, trying to look calm even though my chest hurt. “You promised Lucas you’d go back to him. Don’t start now.”
“I don’t care about promises.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Fiorella is back. You think I can just leave you here with her circling like a vulture?”
The early morning wind picked up, tugging at her coat. Her eyes flashed, stubborn, just like mine.
I reached out and squeezed her wrist. “Listen to me. I’m fine. I’m not scared of her.”
Selena laughed, bitter. “Not scared? She has a history with both of them. You think she came back for fun? She came back to ruin you.”
I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach. My palm drifted down to my stomach, pressing lightly against it, like my body already knew before my mind could accept it. 
“Let her try. I might be carrying their baby now. That makes me stronger than I’ve ever been. They’ll fight for me… and I’ll fight for my baby. But for now, it’s a secret.”
Selena’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened, then shut. She looked me over, like she was trying to see the truth through my skin.
Her breath fogged in the morning chill. “Jesus, Kat,” she whispered, dragging her nails over her lips like she needed something to bite. 
“You’re standing here telling me you might be pregnant with a mafia prince’s kid and you’re acting like it’s a weather report.” She laughed once, sharp, then caught herself. 
Her eyes glossed, like she wanted to cry but wouldn’t give me that.
“You’re serious.”
I nodded once. “Dead serious.”
She shook her head, a smile twitching on her lips. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.” My throat tightened. “But I can handle her. And besides…” My voice softened. “I read her journals when I was stuck in that mountain safe house. She seemed… nice. Lost, even. Maybe she’s not the monster we think.”
Selena snorted. “Nice? Don’t fool yourself. That woman knows how to play every angle. Don’t fall for it.”
I didn’t argue. She was right — and yet, something in me wanted to believe otherwise.
Selena dropped her bag and threw her arms around me. The hug was tight, desperate. She kissed my cheek, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “If you need anything, call me. I’ll be here faster than my shadow.”
I blinked away the sting in my eyes. “Go to your man, Sel. Lucas is waiting. Be happy for me.”
“Selena grabbed my coat lapel, tugging me closer. ‘Don’t you dare let her win, Kat. Swear it.’ Her voice cracked like glass.” Remember this — if she’s the phoenix, Kat, then you be the fire. Burn her before she burns you.”
Then She pulled back with a shaky smile. “Fine. But don’t forget — I’ll kill for you, Kat. Don’t test me.”
I laughed, even as my chest ached. “I know.”
I watched her climb into the car. The engine started, the gates creaked open wider, and the black sedan slipped out onto the road. She didn’t look back.
The iron gates clanged shut behind her, and I felt the silence settle.
The silence didn’t last.
As I walked back toward the estate, I froze. My breath caught.
The front courtyard was full of movement. Maids and butlers were carrying my clothes — my dresses, my shoes, even my pillows — out of Vittorio’s room. They moved like ants, quick and quiet, piling my life into boxes.
And right behind them? Bright fabric I didn’t recognize. Fiorella’s dresses. Her shoes. Her perfume boxes. Moving in.
My pulse kicked hard.
The sound of my dresses hitting the marble floor made my stomach twist. Hangers clattered, heels scraped across the tiles.
 My perfume bottles clinked in a maid’s hands like glass grenades ready to go off. Every piece of me was being erased from Vittorio’s room — replaced with Fiorella’s silk, Fiorella’s colors, Fiorella’s smell. I pressed a hand to the iron railing and whispered, “She’s moving in while I’m still breathing.
I whispered to myself, “I spoke too soon. This isn’t the Fiorella from the journals… this one came back wicked. Or she already hates me for stealing her men.”
“Señorita.”
The voice came from my right. I turned and saw the nanny holding Papi’s hand. Her eyes flicked to the boxes, then to me. She leaned in close, her words soft like secrets.
“If you need help to get rid of her…” Her eyes were sharp. “I’m here. I’ll always help you.”
I stared at her, stunned. “What’s your name, Everyone always calls you Papi’s nanny ?”
She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I have no name, Master. Only the one my master gives me. And you are my master”
Her words made my chest ache.
I stepped closer. “Then I’ll give you one.”
Her eyes glistened, just barely.
For a second, she straightened her shoulders, like she was standing taller just because I’d spoken the words. Her hand squeezed Papi’s little fingers tighter. “A name,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Finally, a name.”
“Ombra,” I said. “It means my shadow in Italian. From now on, that’s who you are. My shadow.”
For the first time, she smiled wide, teeth flashing. “Then I am your shadow, Master. Always.”
Something in my chest steadied. Maybe Fiorella was moving in — but I wasn’t alone anymore.
The chaos inside the estate was louder than ever. The media shoot was ending. I heard shouting, flashes from cameras, the sound of reporters being dismissed in sharp Italian curses.
And then the commotion shifted.
I followed the noise, walking into the grand hall just in time to see Fiorella.
She was radiant — on purpose. Her dress clung in all the right places, her hair loose, her lips painted soft pink. She looked like innocence dressed in silk. And she was clutching Suzy, who clung to her like a doll.
The crowd was thick, journalists pressing in, their voices a hundred questions at once. Vittorio stood stiff, jaw tight, cameras flashing in his face. Valentino wasn’t far, arms crossed, eyes stormy.
Fiorella smiled sweetly, then rushed to my side and grabbed my hands like we were old friends.
“See?” she said, loud enough for the room. “You don’t mind, right, Katarina?”
My fingers twitched under hers. “Mind what?”
She turned her smile toward the cameras. “Moving my things into Vittorio’s room. My own room was damp and made Suzy sick. She deserves better.”
Reporters leaned forward like dogs catching a scent. The air smelled of hairspray, sweat, and too many perfumes clashing. 
One of them shouted, “So you’re saying you’re back together?” Another flash blinded me white. Fiorella tilted her head just so, angling her cheek toward the light like she’d rehearsed it in a mirror.
Vittorio’s head whipped toward us. Valentino’s scowl deepened.
I yanked my hands free. “There are a hundred rooms in this villa, Fiorella. Why his?”
“I didn’t know,” she said with a mock-innocent shrug. “I just wanted to be near him. Near family.”
Valentino stepped forward, his voice cutting. “Enough. Your things will be moved back. Now. You’ve ruined Vittorio’s media round with this stunt.”
And then Fiorella did it.
The tears.
They came too fast, too forced. I watched her shoulders shake as she pressed Suzy closer, her face tilted just enough so the cameras caught every drop.
“For one dangerous second, I almost believed her — the curve of her lip, the way Suzy clung. Almost. Then I saw the daisies.”
“Oh, please,” I muttered under my breath. I knew fake when I saw it.
But the twins didn’t. I saw it in their eyes — the softening, the way guilt crept in.
Then I noticed something.
On the table beside her was a vase. White daisies.
And Fiorella was pressed right against them. Crying, yes — but not coughing. Not swelling.
I froze.
Because in her journal, I had read it — in her own words.
“Daisies,” she wrote  in her journal. “They nearly killed me. My throat closed, my lips turned blue. If Valentino hadn’t dragged me to the hospital, I would’ve died choking on his love.”
But now? She pressed against them like they were roses. No cough. No swelling. No death.
. She was allergic to daisies. Valentino once gifted them, and her throat closed, her face turned red. She nearly died.
But now? Nothing.
My nails dug into my palm. The sight burned into me — Fiorella’s face wet with fake tears, her skin pressed against daisies that should’ve sent her into shock. No coughing, no swelling, not even a flicker of discomfort. Either she had cheated death itself… or this wasn’t Fiorella at all.
My stomach dropped. Either Fiorella had been healed by death itself… or this wasn’t the same Fiorella at all.
My eyes narrowed. You’re hiding something.
I forced myself to relax. I let my shoulders slump, my face soften. I played the part.
“It’s fine,” I said, voice low but carrying. “I’ll move my things to the other side of the villa. Let the twins decide whose bed they want to warm at night.”
The cameras loved it. Gasps rippled. Fiorella’s eyes glittered in triumph.
I stepped past her, close enough to Vittorio to brush his arm. My lips barely moved as I leaned in.
“I think I’m pregnant,” I whispered. “Take me to the hospital. If she’s moving into your room, Vittorio… then make sure she knows it won’t be empty.”
His jaw clenched, fist curling at his side like he needed something to break. For a second, his chest rose sharp, like the words had punched the air out of him.
Cameras still flashed, reporters still screamed Fiorella’s name, but I knew none of it reached him. My secret did.
Then I walked away, leaving him standing frozen, dumbfounded, while the whole villa buzzed like a storm had just broken.
Behind me, I heard his breath hitch — just once. Not the sound of anger. Not shock. Something deeper. 
The kind of sound a man makes when the ground shifts under his feet. Cameras still popped, reporters still screamed Fiorella’s name, but I knew none of it reached him. My words did. My secret did. And for the first time since she walked in, Fiorella didn’t win.