Chapter 9 Amelia
I turn away from Giulia and head down the corridor.
My boots hit the floor in steady beats. Soldiers pass me, some whispering, some pretending not to stare. I keep my eyes forward.
The door to my father’s office looms at the end of the hall.
I stop.
I knock once.
“Come in.”
I push the door open and step inside. The smell hits first. Leather. Metal. This room has always felt less like an office and more like a courtroom where I am always on trial.
I straighten and salute. “Captain Amelia Russo reporting, sir.”
“At ease.”
I drop my hand and stand where I am. He does not look up right away. He flips through a folder, slow and deliberate, like he enjoys the silence stretching between us.
Then he looks at me.
“The Russo family has received a special invitation,” he says.
I blink.
That is it?
An invitation.
I wait.
“A dinner party,” he continues. “Hosted by the most eligible bachelor in the city.”
My brows knit together before I can stop them. Confusion settles in my chest. “And why are you telling me this?”
Our family gets invited to events like this all the time. Rich people love pretending they matter more when they stand next to my father. I attend some. I skip most. This is nothing new.
He opens a drawer and pulls out an envelope.
Cream colored. Thick. Heavy. Gold lettering along the edges.
“This invitation,” he says, tapping it once, “is from Luca D’Angelo.”
Luca D’Angelo?
I stare at the envelope like it might explode.
“And,” he adds, his voice sharp, “you received a personal invitation.”
He slides it across the desk toward me.
My name is written on it.
Amelia Russo.
My breath stutters before I can catch it. Not because he means anything to me, I barely know him, but because getting a personal invitation to his party is the most shocking thing to happen to me, ever. I'm surprised he knows I exist.
Below it, a signature I recognize instantly. Clean. Confident. Luca D’Angelo. And beneath that, a single line written in elegant script.
I would be honored if you honored the invitation.
My fingers curl slowly.
Shock settles deep in my bones. I have never received a personal invitation from anyone like this. Not a businessman. Not a politician. Not someone with a name that carries weight, power and fear in equal measure.
Not Luca D’Angelo.
I lift my eyes. “Sir, I have nothing to tell you.”
His gaze sharpens. “Nothing?”
“No,” I say evenly. “I have never spoken to Luca D’Angelo. I have seen him twice in my life. From a distance.”
He grunts, leaning back in his chair. His fingers drum once on the armrest.
“Perhaps you caught his attention,” he says. “Perhaps he wants something from you. Who knows. You might finally be useful for once.”
The words slice clean.
I inhale. Slow. Deep. It does nothing.
“I work my butt off for you, dad,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes harden. “General Russo.”
My jaw tightens. “What do I have to do for you to acknowledge me?” My voice cracks, just slightly. I hate it. “What is it ever going to be enough?”
“Act like a woman, for once,” he snaps. “Get married. Have kids. The army is not fit for women.”
Something in me snaps.
“There are many women in this goddamn place,” I shout. “Why is mine any different?”
His chair scrapes back as he rises. His voice drops low and dangerous. “Yell at me one more time and you can say goodbye to your badge.”
Silence slams down between us.
He grabs the invitation and flings it across the desk. It skids toward me and stops at my boots.
“You have the entire day off,” he says coldly. “Go shopping. Get something appropriate. I want you presentable at the event. I want no embarrassment of any sort. You are dismissed.”
I bite down hard on my lip. The taste of blood fills my mouth. I refuse to let my eyes burn.
I salute.
I pick up the invitation.
I turn and walk out without saying a word.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
And somehow, that sound hurts the most.
I leave the hallway before anyone can stop me.
My pace is fast. Too fast. Boots striking the floor hard enough to echo. I do not care who sees me now.
I turn corners. Pass familiar doors. Faces blur. Voices fade.
By the time I reach my room, my hands are shaking.
I unlock the door and step inside.
I close it.
I lock it.
I press my back against the metal and stand there for a second. Just one second. Long enough to make sure no one followed me. Long enough to make sure no one can see me like this.
Then my legs give out.
I cross the room in long, angry strides and drop onto the bed.
Not gently.
The mattress dips under my weight, springs creaking in protest. I stare at the ceiling for a second, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. The room is quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps outside. No voices. Just me.
That is when it breaks.
The tears come fast and brutal. Not pretty. Not controlled. I turn onto my side and bury my face into the pillow, pressing it hard against my mouth so no sound escapes. My shoulders shake. My chest aches with every breath.
I hate this.
I hate that after everything, after all these years, his words still cut this deep. I hate that they still find their way under my skin and twist. I hate that no matter how strong I become, no matter how far I push myself, he will never look at me and say he is proud.
Never.
I roll onto my back and drag my hands down my face, wiping away tears with rough, impatient motions. My eyes burn. My throat feels raw. I blink hard, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
In. Out.
I am tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. The kind that settles in your bones and refuses to leave. The kind that comes from fighting a battle you already know you will never win.
I stare at the ceiling again.
He does not believe women belong in the army. Not really. He tolerates them. Endures them. And I am his daughter, his constant reminder that the world did not bend the way he wanted it to.
No amount of medals will change that.
No amount of blood or sweat or discipline.
I turn my head and spot the envelope on the desk across the room.
Cream colored. Thick. Heavy.
The invitation.
My jaw tightens.
I push myself up and grab it, sitting back on the bed. The paper feels expensive between my fingers. Too expensive. Too deliberate. I flip it over once. Twice.
For a moment, I seriously consider tearing it in half.
Just ripping it. Throwing it in the bin. Pretending none of this ever happened.
What good will a party do for me anyway.
I hate parties. Especially ones hosted by the elite. They are all the same. Loud smiles. Empty compliments. Too much money and too little substance. Men who talk down to you until they realize who your father is. Women who measure worth in diamonds and last names.
I have no place there.
And Luca D’Angelo.
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
I barely know the man. I have seen him twice. From across rooms. Surrounded by power and whispers. A man people either want to be or want to avoid. Whatever this is, I want no part of it.
Decision made.
I grab my laptop and flip it open, fingers already moving. I search for his contact information. It takes less time than I expect. Of course it does. Men like him are never hard to find.
I start drafting the email.
Polite. Brief. Regretful.
Thank you for the invitation. Unfortunately, due to personal reasons, I will not be able to attend.
I pause, frowning.
Too vague.
I add another line. Something about prior commitments. Duty. Respect.
It looks believable enough.
My finger hovers over the trackpad.
Send.
Just before I click it, a notification pops up at the corner of the screen.
New email.
From: Luca D’Angelo.
My breath stills.
I stare at the screen for a full second before opening it.
The message is short.
Too short.
Before you consider turning down my invitation, I suggest you reconsider. I am not a man who extends offers twice. Especially not to people who interest me.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
My lips part slightly in disbelief.
Interest.
The audacity.
Heat flares in my chest. Anger sharp and instant. My fingers curl against the edge of the laptop as I reread the line.
Who the hell does he think he is.
I let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing.
Oh.
This just became personal.
I stare at the screen, my mind racing.
How did he know?
I had not sent the email yet. I had not hinted at anything. The draft is still sitting there, unsent, polite and harmless. And yet he knew. Somehow, he knew I was about to turn him down.
A chill slides down my spine.
Is he spying on me?
The thought makes my stomach twist.
No. That is ridiculous. I am not that important. Even Luca D’Angelo does not have eyes inside a military barracks room. That would be insane.
Wouldn’t it?
I read his message again.
Slowly.
I am not a man who extends offers twice. Especially not to people who interest me.
My jaw tightens.
Interest.
The word burns.
Who the fuck does he think he is.
Heat crawls up my neck and settles behind my eyes. My fingers itch. I want to throw the laptop across the room. I want to punch something. Preferably him.
I start typing a reply.
Then I stop.
My hands freeze above the keys.
He has power. Too much of it. The kind that does not wear uniforms or badges. The kind that pulls strings quietly and lets other people do the dirty work. One wrong sentence and I could lose everything I have worked for.
My career.
My rank.
Everything.
And my father would love that. He would smile that tight, satisfied smile and say he told me so.
I slam the laptop shut halfway, breathing hard.
No.
I am not letting him get under my skin.
Not him.
Not anyone.
I open the laptop again, this time with purpose, ready to shut it down for good.
Another notification pops up.
New email.
From: Luca D’Angelo.
My laugh is sharp and humorless.
Of course.
I open it.
This one is longer.
Before you get the wrong idea, Captain Russo, let me be clear. This is not charity and it is not curiosity. I do not invite people who bore me. And I do not chase people who play small games. If you plan to hide behind excuses, do us both a favor and say it plainly. I admire honesty. Even when it disappoints me.
I stare at the screen.
My chest tightens.
My pulse spikes.
The audacity.
The arrogance.
The absolute nerve of this man.
I let out a slow breath, trying to calm myself.
It does not work.
You know what.
Fuck it.
I sit up straighter, fingers flying over the keys before I can talk myself out of it.
My reply is short. Clean. Sharp.
Mr. D’Angelo,
I do not hide behind excuses, and I do not play games. I decline invitations I do not want to attend. Simple. Your admiration is not required, and frankly, neither is your disappointment.
Regards,
Amelia Russo.
I read it once.
Twice.
It is blunt. Cold. Angry.
Perfect.
Before doubt can creep in, I hit send.
The moment the email leaves my outbox, my stomach drops.
What have I done.
My heart starts pounding hard enough to hurt. Five seconds pass. Then ten. Then thirty. My leg bounces uncontrollably as panic creeps in, fast and vicious.
You idiot.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
What were you thinking.
I drag a hand through my hair, breathing shallow now. My mind spirals. Court martial. Forced resignation. Some quiet order signed behind closed doors. My father shaking his head like he always does.
I am finished.
Absolutely finished.
I start drafting an apology immediately, fingers clumsy and shaking.
Mr. D’Angelo, please disregard my previous message. I spoke out of frustration and did not intend any disrespect—
The cursor blinks.
Five minutes pass.
No response.
My chest tightens further.
I delete the draft.
Start again.
This time more formal. More desperate.
Another notification appears before I can finish.
New email.
From: Luca D’Angelo.
My breath catches.
I open it.
Captain Russo,
Good. At least you have teeth. I was beginning to worry the rumors were exaggerated. If you think declining me scares me, you are mistaken. But if you think speaking to me like that comes without consequences, you are even more mistaken. Still, I respect the honesty. Most people tremble before hitting send.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Is this really him.
Luca D’Angelo barely speaks at public events. When he does, it is clipped and controlled. Dangerous in its restraint. And yet here he is, taunting me like this.
Son of a bitch.
A slow smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
I start typing again.
Rumors tend to grow when men feel threatened. If my honesty unsettles you, perhaps you are not as unshakable as you pretend to be.
I send it.
Immediately.
No hesitation.
His reply comes faster this time.
Threatened is a strong word. Curious fits better. You are either very brave or very reckless. I have not decided which yet. That makes the dinner more interesting.
My pulse jumps.
Interesting.
I scoff and type back.
I do not exist to entertain you. And I do not attend dinners to inflate egos. Yours included.
Another reply follows almost instantly.
Careful, Captain. You are starting to sound like you enjoy this.
I laugh out loud, sharp and breathless.
Enjoy this.
I lean back against the pillows, laptop balanced on my thighs, heart racing now for an entirely different reason.
Enjoy this? No.
But I am not backing down either.
Enjoy is not the word. Tolerate, maybe. You started this, remember. I tried to decline politely.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
I did not start it. I noticed you. There is a difference.
My fingers pause.
My chest tightens again, but this time it is not fear.
It is something else.
Something dangerous.
I type slowly now.
You noticed wrong.
His reply comes with brutal confidence.
We will see.
I stare at the screen, breath shallow, pulse loud in my ears.
Whatever this is.
It is far from over.
Now that bastard has her attention.
He wants her at the dinner, then he’s going to get exactly what he wishes for.
Just before I close my laptop, I receive one more email from him.
I'll see you tomorrow. Don't be late.
I scoff.
“Bastard.”
I slam the laptop shut.
I stand and toss my bag onto the bed.
A deep breath.
Time to move.
I change into a mufti. Jeans, a loose sweater, sneakers. Comfortable. Invisible. Perfect.
I slide the invitation into my dress drawer.
I would have loved to go with Giulia. Someone to share the ridiculousness. Someone to laugh at the absurdity of dressing up for one of Luca D’Angelo’s pompous events.
But Giulia doesn’t get a day off.
And being another female under General Russo, I know there will be no exceptions.
No permission. No mercy.
I step outside.
The city is bright and loud. Cars honk. People move fast, brushing past me. I walk faster, shoulders stiff, mind buzzing with irritation.
I stop at the first boutique.
Glass doors slide open. A bell jingles.
“Can I help you?” a clerk asks.
“Maybe,” I mutter.
I scan the racks. Nothing. Dresses too frilly. Too short. Too long. Too loud. Too dull.
I roll my eyes.
“Seriously?” I mutter to myself. “Who dresses like this?”
I move on.
Boutique after boutique. Same story. I glare at the mirrors. I glare at the fabric. I glare at myself.
Finally, I slip into a boutique tucked into a quiet side street.
The lights are warm. The racks neat. The air smells faintly of lavender. I breathe. Relief.
And then I see it.
A black dress.
Simple. Elegant. Impossible to ignore.
The slit runs high, grazing my thigh when I lift it. Not vulgar. Just the perfect dress for me.
The back dips low, open to the shoulder blades, strong and daring.
The fabric hugs my curves without clinging too tight. Smooth. I lift the hem and let it drop.
I pick it up, brushing my fingers along it.
I nod.
This is it.
The clerk looks up.
“Would you like to try it?”
“Yes,” I say sharply.
The fitting room is small. Too bright. The mirror too big. I step inside, pull the curtain closed, and slip into the dress.
It fits perfectly.
Length. Cut. Line. Everything falls in the right place.
I study myself in the mirror.
My hair pulled back in a loose bun for now. Bare face. The dress makes me look… dangerous. Poised. Controlled. Definitely not like someone in the army.
I tilt my head.
This is the first time I feel like myself in something other than uniform.
I step out.
The clerk raises an eyebrow.
“You like it?”
I smirk.
“I love it.”
“Shoes?” the clerk asks.
I shake my head.
“Black. Heels. Simple. Nothing flashy. Strong, like the dress.”
The clerk brings a few options. I hold them, tap one against the other. I lift one, then the other, feeling the weight, imagining walking in them.
“Yes. These,” I say finally.
Bag next. Small. Black. Minimal. Matches the dress. No bling. No distractions.
Jewelry last. Small studs. A thin bracelet. Nothing else. I don’t want to overdo it. The dress and shoes are enough.
I check myself again in the mirror.
The slit. The open back. The heels that make me stand taller. I smooth the dress over my hips. Tighten my posture.
I look at myself and grit my teeth.
“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
Hair is next. I find a salon. Seat myself. Tell the stylist I want something sleek but strong. Sophisticated but not soft. Something that says I belong anywhere I step, even at Luca D’Angelo’s playground of the elite.
The stylist frowns.
“Not exactly a party style,” she says.
I smirk.
“I’m not a party girl.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Not even a little?”
I shake my head.
“Not one bit.”
They work on my hair. Loose waves cascade down my shoulders. Side part. Controlled volume. Nothing messy, nothing screaming attention, but still enough to notice if someone dares to look.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes sharp. Jaw tight. Shoulders back. Confidence rising, careful and deliberate.
I touch the slit of the dress with one finger. Adjust a strap. Check the shoes with small, precise movements.
My fingers linger on the bracelet. Minimal, but strong. Like me.
I exhale slowly.
This is who I will be tomorrow.
Strong.
And that bastard Luca D’Angelo? He has no idea what he’s about to get.
I smile faintly.
Bastard indeed.