Chapter 40- I'll Do It Alone

Chapter 40- I'll Do It Alone
ARIA’S POV

The car ride home was a suffocating silence, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every breath feel like a fight. Alessandro’s eyes kept flicking to me in the rearview mirror, sharp and unyielding, like he could see the storm raging inside me.

I stared out the window, my hands clenched in my lap, nails digging into my palms to keep me grounded. The city lights blurred past, a smear of gold and red against the night, but all I could see was him. The man in the gray suit. The man who killed Camilla. His smug smile, his easy laugh, the way he touched that woman’s shoulder like he wasn’t a monster. My blood boiled, hot and vicious, screaming for me to do something, anything, to make him pay.

I didn’t speak. Not a word. Not through the dinner, where I stood like a ghost, my mind replaying every second of seeing him. I could’ve done it right there—crossed the ballroom, grabbed a knife, and buried it in his chest. I could’ve watched his eyes go wide, watched the life drain out of him, watched him realize what he’d done as he bled out on that polished marble floor. But I didn’t. I stood there, smiling when my father looked at me, nodding when someone spoke, playing the perfect mafia princess while my heart screamed for blood.

The car pulled into the driveway of the mansion, tires crunching on gravel. The second it stopped, I shoved the door open and bolted out, my heels clicking furiously against the stone path. I didn’t look back at Alessandro, didn’t care if he was watching, didn’t care about anything except getting to my room. I needed to be alone. I needed to think. I needed to plan.

The mansion’s grand foyer swallowed me, all high ceilings and cold marble, but I didn’t stop. My feet carried me up the winding staircase, my dress swishing against my legs, my breath coming in sharp, angry bursts. I felt like a coward. A pathetic, spineless coward. I could’ve faced him. I could’ve ended it right there, in that glittering ballroom, sent Camilla’s killer straight to hell without wasting a second. But I didn’t. I let him walk away, let him laugh, let him live.

I slammed my bedroom door behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot. My chest heaved, my hands shaking as I leaned against the door, trying to catch my breath. The rage was still there, burning, twisting, a live thing clawing at my insides. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. I wanted to rip the world apart until there was nothing left of him.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to move. I kicked off my heels, letting them clatter to the floor, and crossed the room to my bed. I sat down hard, the mattress creaking under me, and reached for my laptop. My fingers trembled as I opened it, the screen’s glow casting harsh shadows across my face. I didn’t know his name, not yet, but I was going to find out. I was going to find out everything about him, and then I was going to destroy him.

I hacked into the ballroom’s security cameras, my fingers flying over the keys, muscle memory taking over. The footage loaded, grainy at first, then sharpening into focus. There he was, standing under that cascade of golden light, his gray suit crisp, his smile wide and careless. My stomach twisted, a fresh wave of anger surging through me. I rewatched the footage, pausing on his face, zooming in until his features filled the screen. Those sharp cheekbones, that easy grin, those eyes that didn’t deserve to see another day. I took a screenshot, my heart pounding as I saved it.

Then I started digging.

I ran his face through every database I could access—public records, private servers, anything I could hack into. My hands moved fast, my mind razor-sharp despite the rage. I didn’t stop, didn’t blink, didn’t let myself feel anything but determination. Hours passed, the night deepening outside my window, but I didn’t care. I was going to find him. I was going to know him. And then I was going to end him.

The search pinged. A name. A file. My breath caught as I opened it, my eyes scanning the details. Nikolai Volkov. Son of Ivan Volkov, the Russian don. The woman in the gold dress? His sister, Anastasia. My heart stopped for a second, then started pounding again, harder, faster. A Volkov. Of course. It made sense now—his confidence, his untouchable air, the way he moved through that ballroom like he owned it. He was mafia royalty, just like me. But that didn’t matter. Not to me. Not when he’d taken Camilla.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my mind racing. A Volkov. Killing him wouldn’t just be personal—it could start a war. My father’s world, this delicate balance of power and lies, could come crashing down. But I didn’t care. Let it burn. Let it all burn. All I cared about was making him pay.

I opened our group chat—me, Julia, and Rosetta. My fingers shook as I typed, the words spilling out like venom. ‘I found him. Camilla’s killer. Nikolai Volkov. Son of the Russian don.’ I attached the screenshot, my heart hammering as I hit send.

The chat exploded. Julia’s messages came first, all caps, furious: ‘THAT BASTARD? WHEN DO WE KILL HIM?’ Rosetta was calmer, but her words were just as sharp: ‘Aria, are you sure? This is big.’ I stared at their messages, my chest tight. They were angry, just like me, but I could feel their hesitation, their fear. Killing a Volkov wasn’t just revenge—it was a declaration of war. They knew it. I knew it.

I typed back, my fingers steady now. ‘We have to be careful. He’s the don’s son. But I don’t care about the consequences. He’s going to pay.’ The chat went quiet for a moment, and I could almost hear their thoughts, their doubts. Julia finally replied: ‘Aria, this could destroy everything. Your father, the families, all of it.’ Rosetta added: ‘We’re with you, but we need a plan. A smart one.’

I stared at the screen, my jaw tight. They were scared. I got it. They had lives, families, futures to protect. But I didn’t. Not anymore. Camilla was my family, my heart, and he’d taken her. I wasn’t going to drag Julia and Rosetta into this mess. This was my fight. My vengeance. I’d do it alone.

I typed one last message: ‘I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.’ Then I closed the chat, my heart pounding. I didn’t need them. I didn’t need anyone. All I needed was a plan, and I was already working on it.

I went back to my laptop, diving deeper into Nikolai Volkov’s life. I hacked into more cameras—street cams, private security systems, anything that might’ve caught him.

I found footage of him at clubs, at meetings, at restaurants, always with that same smug smile. He was careless, reckless, like he thought he was untouchable. I found records of his deals—drugs, weapons, the usual mafia filth. He wasn’t just a killer; he was a predator, profiting off pain, just like his father. I could’ve sent all this to the feds, let them lock him up, but I knew better. With his family’s power, he’d be out in a week, maybe less. Prison wasn’t enough. I didn’t want him locked away. I wanted him gone. Wiped off the earth.

I leaned back, my eyes burning from staring at the screen. The Volkovs were leaving for Russia in two days. That gave me a window—small, but enough. I had to act fast. I had to make sure Nikolai’s body was the only thing going back to Moscow. For Camilla. For the hole in my heart that would never heal.

I was still digging through footage, piecing together his routines, when a sharp knock on my door made me jump. My heart lurched, and I slammed the laptop shut, my pulse racing. “Miss Moretti,” Alessandro’s voice came through, low and steady, like always. “Your father wants to see you.”

I froze, my mind scrambling. Alessandro. Damn him. He’d been watching me all night, those cold eyes missing nothing. Did he know something? Had he seen me staring at Nikolai? My hands shook as I shoved the laptop under my pillow, smoothing my dress as I stood. I crossed the room, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and opened the door.

Alessandro stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, his face as unreadable as ever. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, I swore he could see everything—the rage, the plan, the bloodlust burning inside me. I forced a smile, my voice light. “Tell my father I’m tired. I need rest.”

I started to close the door, but before I could, my father’s voice cut through the air, smooth and dangerous. “Aria.”

I froze, my hand on the doorknob. He stepped into view, his tall frame looming behind Alessandro, his suit still crisp despite the late hour. His eyes glinted with something I couldn’t read—amusement, maybe, or something darker. He smirked, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that made my stomach twist.

“I have good news for you, Aria,” he said, his voice dripping with promise.

My heart stopped. Good news? In this world, good news was never good. Not for me. I stared at him, my throat tight, my mind racing with possibilities, each one worse than the last. What did he know? What did he want? And why was he looking at me like that, like he’d just played a card I didn’t even know was on the table?

I forced my voice to stay steady, my face calm. “What is it, Father?”

His smirk widened, and he stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’ll see soon enough.”

He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding, my mind screaming. Alessandro lingered for a moment, his gaze heavy, like he was trying to piece me together. Then he followed my father, leaving me alone with the weight of whatever was coming.

I closed the door, my hands shaking as I leaned against it. Good news. I didn’t trust it. Not in this world, where every smile hid a knife, every promise hid a cage. Whatever my father had planned, it wasn’t for me—it was for him, for his empire, for his power.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Nikolai Volkov. I’d find him. I’d end him. And no one—not my father, not Alessandro, not the entire Russian mafia—was going to stop me.

For Camilla.

I turned back to my laptop, my resolve hardening. The clock was ticking. Two days. I had two days to make sure Nikolai Volkov paid for what he’d done. And I wasn’t going to waste a single second.