Chapter 38 Fiorella
The highway blurs past me as I drive, but I don't see it. My hands clench around the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache, but I don't loosen them. The silence inside the car is suffocating, but I don't play the radio. Nothing will shut out the emptiness tearing at my chest.
I don't remember choosing to be here. My body chose for me, driving me to the one place the world can't find me. One of my dad's hideouts, one of ours, really. A place only the two of us knew.
The moment I pull up, a wave of familiarity washes over me. The small cabin is tucked back, under the canopies of towering trees. It's old but sturdy, a cabin that always seemed untouched by time. I haven't visited since, and the last time I was here, my father was with me.
And now, he never will be here with me again.
I take a deep breath as I step out of the car. The night air is cool, crisp, but it does nothing to quench the fire raging inside me. I push open the door, and it's all just the same. The worn leather couch, the old wooden desk in the corner, the lingering scent of whiskey and cigars that will probably never fade.
I close the door behind me, and that’s when it happens.
The weight of everything I’ve been holding in crashes down like a tidal wave.
I barely make it to the couch before my knees give out.
A sob wrings from my throat, harsh and ragged. I am adrift in a sea of sorrow, and for the first time in my life, I don't know how to swim.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse. Images of my father flood my mind. His sharp, knowing eyes. The way he would tilt his head when he was amused. His voice, deep, commanding, but always warm when he spoke to me.
I can still hear him.
“You’re strong, Fiorella. Stronger than they’ll ever expect. But even the strong need to know when to rest.”
A gasped breath escapes me, and I rest my forehead on my knees. He's dead. He's actually dead. And no matter if I really do take out as many enemies as I have or shed all the blood I can, it will not fill the hole he created.
I cross my arms around my chest in the hope that will stop the pain, but it only spreads.
"I wasn't ready," I say softly, my voice shaking. "I wasn't ready for this."
I should have been there. I should have done more. I should have protected him the way he always protected me.
But I didn't.
And now, I am alone.
The room is quiet except for my uneven breaths. I don't know how long I sit there, drowning in my own sorrow, but at some point the storm inside of me shifts.
Grief does not leave, but it spreads.
It becomes something else.
Something solid.
Resolve.
I scan the horizon, rubbing the dampness from my face. My dad always said to be strong, but he never suggested I could not mourn. And I will mourn. I will weep for him, miss him, carry this pain in me.
But I will not break.
Because if there is one thing I know without a doubt, it's this...
No one gets past my family and lives.
I gasp sharply, my chest spasming as the memory is lost.
This cabin was where I had trained, where I bled, fought, struggled and won my place. But more than that, it had been our place. My father's and mine.
I push myself from the couch and walk to the gun rack, running my fingers over the empty spaces where his weapons used to be.
Another memory hits me, this time softer.
I was seven, lying on that same couch, struggling to keep my eyes open as my father flipped through an old book. It was a quiet moment, a respite from business meetings, from threats looming over us. Just us.
"Papa, why do you always read these dull books?" I had yawned, rubbing my sleepy eyes.
He had smiled, but not looked up. "Because knowledge is power, Fiorella. You can fight with a gun, with a knife, but the most powerful weapon you'll ever have is here." He'd touched his head. "A sharp mind will keep you alive long after bullets are spent."
I hadn't heard then, too focused on trying to stay awake. But now I did.
Everything that he had ever taught me was to prepare me for this moment. For the day that I would be standing on my own.
My throat tightens as I step back, looking around at the cabin that had shaped me into the woman I am today.
He isn't here anymore.
But I am.
And I will make sure his legacy doesn't die with him.
I close my eyes and whisper the promise to the empty air.
My father was gone. His name, his reputation, all that he built, now belonged to me. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure if I had what it took to keep it.
I sat in the creaky leather chair at the cabin desk, tracing fingers over the worn wood. My father had spent countless nights here, making the choices that constructed the empire from the ground up. He had always known the right thing to do, had always had a plan. But me?
I was no longer his daughter. I was the heir. The leader.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing with things I wasn't certain I could answer. Would the men stay loyal now that my father was dead? Would they trust me to lead them, or would they see me as a temporary measure until someone stronger arrived?
Would they betray me?
Would they turn their backs on me the moment they saw weakness?
I curled my fists, nails digging into palms.
My father had commanded respect for years, not just because he was in charge, but because he was who he was. He had presence, an aura of power that caused people to fall into line without so much as a thought. And while I had devoted my entire life to showing the world that I was as ruthless, as powerful as him, I wasn't.
Would they still answer when I called?
Would they still swear oaths of loyalty when the man they had followed for so long was gone?
I reached for the glass jar on the desk, one my father had left here for business evenings that became too much. I poured a glass with a small quantity, gazing at the amber liquid as if it held the answers I was looking for.
It had all happened so suddenly.
Just a few days ago, I had lost my father. I had never had a future shaped by grief. Now I was moving into a world where every action I took possibly could be a difference between living and dying.
Would the other family oppose me? Would they take my father's death as open season to retaliate for their vengeance?
And most pressing, could I stop them?
I drank, the fire that coursed down my throat doing nothing to quench the storm in my head.
My father always said that a name is as good as the man who wears it. And I would wear it.
I had no alternative.
I leaned back in the chair, eyes closed briefly.
I couldn't afford to be afraid.
I couldn't afford to be unsure.
Because hesitation in this world was death.
I would not let the Marchesi, or anyone, take something that was mine.
I would let them know just who they were messing with.