The Fire Remembers.

The Fire Remembers.
He steps through the smoke like it’s parting for him. Tall. Immaculate. Untouched by the chaos he’s created. My father. His suit is pressed, his tie straight, not a speck of blood on him while the world burns around us. The firelight cuts across his face, carving hard lines into sharper ones, the reflection of everything I hate in one calm, calculating expression.
I take a step forward, glass crunching under my boot. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just gives a small shrug, like this is a conversation over coffee. “You weren’t answering any of my calls,” he says smoothly, eyes flicking down to the swell of my stomach. “And that baby right there—” he gestures lazily with one hand “—is part of my blood. I’m here to claim it.”
Claim it. The words hit like another explosion.
Behind me, Ariana moves first. Her steps are measured and controlled, but the fury in her eyes could melt steel. “That baby,” she says coldly, “has nothing to do with you—if she doesn’t want it to have anything to do with you.”
My father’s gaze slides to her, assessing, bored. “Ariana Donatello. Still running your mouth like you run this family.”
“Better me than a coward who hides behind bombs,” she snaps.
He smiles faintly, that politician’s smile he always wore when he was about to say something cruel. But before he can open his mouth, Isla steps forward, blood running down her arm, chin lifted like she’s made of something indestructible.
“And I’m pretty sure after today’s show,” she says, her voice sharp as broken glass, “she wants nothing to fucking do with you.”
The wind shifts, carrying the heat toward us. My hair sticks to my face, my lungs burn, but I don’t move. Not back. Not an inch.
He studies the three of us, something almost amused flickering behind his eyes. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “My little girl and her guard dogs.”
“Look at you,” I bite out. “Blowing up a house full of innocent people just to prove a point. You’ve sunk lower than even I thought you could.”
He tuts softly. “Innocent? Don’t pretend you’re naïve. You’re living under the Donatello name now. None of you are innocent.”
Ariana shifts slightly in front of me, a subtle protective move. I see the faint tremor in her hands, not from fear, but restraint. She’s dying to tear him apart.
He tilts his head, voice dripping with mock patience. “Now, why don’t you come quietly, Alina? You and that little heir. We’ll have a talk and figure out what’s best for both of us, the power is in our hands now.”
“What’s best,” I say, my voice shaking with rage, “is you walking back through that smoke and never coming near my family again.”
His expression tightens, just a flicker, but I see it, the first crack in his control. “You forget who you’re talking to.”
“No,” I whisper. “You forget who you made.”
Ariana and Isla shift closer, shoulders brushing mine. Three women standing against fire, blood, and a legacy of men who underestimated us.

He raises his hand, a lazy signal, and more of his men step through the smoke. Guns drawn. The air hums with tension. For a moment, everything slows, the way the flames flicker against the broken glass, the faint sound of someone sobbing in the distance, the dull beat of my heart syncing with Bean’s.
Then Ariana exhales, a single word under her breath. “Enough.”
She moves first, fast as lightning, reaching for a fallen weapon, firing before they even have time to aim. The sound shatters the air.
Isla is a storm beside her, grabbing a gunman by the throat and slamming his head into the side of a shattered table.
I don’t wait. I grab the chair leg again, the blood-stained wood slick in my grip, and swing at the closest man. He lunges for me, shouting something I can’t hear over the thunder in my head. I duck beneath his arm and drive the chair leg into his ribs. The crack is solid and ugly. He folds, and I bring it down again, catching the side of his face. Blood spatters across my cheek, warm and slick, but I don’t stop moving.

The air is alive with gunfire, sharp, metallic, close. Sparks jump off the stone terrace as bullets ricochet. My lungs burn; smoke claws its way down my throat. Somewhere to my left, Ariana fires again, the muzzle flash painting her in light and shadow. She moves with terrifying precision—knees, throat, chest—every shot purposeful. Isla is a blur beyond her, hair flying loose, her hands slick with crimson as she elbows one man in the face and spins, driving her heel into another’s stomach. He hits the ground hard, but she’s already moving, picking up his fallen pistol and firing into the smoke. I force my body forward, every step a fight through shattered glass and debris. My father’s silhouette looms at the far end of the garden, framed by fire, perfectly still. He’s not running. He’s waiting. A figure cuts across my path. I swing low, the chair leg meeting shin. He howls, stumbles, and I grab his wrist, twisting until the gun clatters free. I kick it away and drive my knee into his gut. He collapses, and I step over him without looking back. Someone grabs my arm from behind; I spin, elbow connecting with bone. There’s the crunch of cartilage, a grunt of pain. I shove him off and keep moving, my heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through my ribs. Everywhere I look, the firelight throws monsters out of the shadows. The scent of burning wood and flesh mixes until it’s indistinguishable. People shout names, orders, and prayers. The Donatello men are pushing in from the other side, but the centre—our ground—belongs to us, the woman of this family that will tear down any man who tries to harm what is ours.

Ariana vaults a fallen table, tackles another gunman, and the two of them vanish into the smoke. I glimpse her rise again, her face streaked with blood, her eyes bright and cold. Isla’s scream rings out in rage, not pain, and I see her slam a metal pole straight through a man’s shoulder. He drops, and she looks at me across the chaos. A nod. Keep going.
I keep going.
Two more block my way, one aiming high, the other charging. I throw myself sideways as the bullet whizzes past, roll, and drive the broken chair leg up into the charging man’s stomach. He doubles over, and I rip the weapon free, swinging it in a wide arc that catches the shooter across the temple. He goes down like a stone. I can see my father now, clear through the thinning smoke. He’s calm, hands clasped behind his back, watching me fight my way toward him as if it’s a test. My breath rasps. My arms shake. But I lift the blood-stained wood again.
“I’m coming for you,” I whisper, and step through the fire.