Mrs Mafia and her Boss-baby

Chapter 15

Lavinia’s POV

I couldn’t sleep.

The Marciano estate had gone still hours ago. Guards rotated, lights dimmed, and even the hum of the generator softened somewhere beyond the garden wall.

But my mind refused to rest.

That ring—the Ricci heirloom—was somewhere in this house. I knew it.

The thought had been clawing at me since the moment I arrived.

Without it, I had no claim. No proof. No weapon.

I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling. The curtains moved gently with the breeze, brushing against my bare arm. I thought of Grandma Gim’s words earlier that evening, the way her wrinkled hand had patted mine as if she knew something I didn’t.

“Love grows when you let your guard down, child.”

It sounded funny at first. Then I felt it rise, the dry, bitter laughter that never made it out of my throat. Love? In this house?

I had to force myself not to roll my eyes right in her face. Instead, I excused myself, claiming I was tired. Now, hours later, I still felt her words crawling under my skin.

“Love,” I whispered into the dark, the word twisting out of me like smoke. “Right.”

I sat up, pushed the blanket aside, and swung my feet onto the cold marble floor. My pulse slowed. My mind sharpened. I wasn’t leaving this place without that ring.

***

The corridor outside my room stretched long and dim, lined with portraits of grim-faced men. I wondered how many of them had killed for what they had, or who they had pretended to love.

I moved quietly, careful not to let my heels click. Every corner had a camera, every hallway a guard. But I had grown up in homes like this, built for power, not comfort. I knew their rhythms. I knew when people got lazy.

Pretending to explore the estate during the day had helped. I remembered the layout, the turn before the dining wing, the small library that led to the business section, the heavy oak door Silvestro called his study.

He spent most nights there.

I’d seen him once through the half-open door, head bent over papers, a glass of whiskey beside his hand. His jacket had been off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked tense and worried, but at the same time, tired. Not that it concernedme though.

Now, walking through the hall alone, I tightened my robe around me and breathed slowly.

Every door I passed tempted me to look inside, but I didn’t waste time. The ring had to be in his study.

That’s where my father would’ve sent it. That’s where Silvestro would’ve hidden it, close enough to guard, far enough to keep me away.

It took me fifteen minutes to reach the west wing. The air there always felt different. Even the smell changed, laced with cigar smoke and leather.

The study door stood shut, as expected.

I pressed my ear against it. Nothing. No voices, no movement.

Still, I waited. Five minutes. Then ten. The clock from the hallway ticked softly, the sound stretching my patience thin.

Finally, footsteps approached, from the other side of the hall. I froze and leaned into the shadows.

The door opened. Silvestro stepped out, phone in hand, his expression unreadable. His tone was calm, though the words were low enough that I couldn’t make them out.

He walked down the corridor without looking back.

I counted to twenty after he disappeared. Then thirty, just to be sure.

When silence returned, I moved.

***

Soon enough, I opened the door and entered the study. The lights were low, a faint amber glow from the desk lamp spilling across files and maps. Papers lay in neat stacks, typical of him.

I shut the door quietly behind me and crossed the room.

The safe was built into the wall behind a bookshelf. I’d noticed the small seam earlier, a line too perfect to be decorative.

It took a few tries to pull the right books out, but eventually, the shelf gave a slight click. I smiled faintly.

So predictable.

I crouched, my fingers brushing against the cold metal. The keypad gleamed faintly. I didn’t know the code, but that had never stopped me before.

I found a small letter opener on the desk, thin enough to wedge into the panel’s side. It wasn’t ideal, but I’d picked worse locks with less.

A soft snap.

Then another.

“Come on…” I whispered, biting the inside of my cheek.

The light flickered green.

I exhaled, my shoulders loosening for the first time all night.

Inside, documents were stacked in folders, deeds, contracts, and beneath them, a small velvet box. My pulse quickened.

I lifted it carefully. The hinge creaked open.

The ring was exactly as I remembered it: gold with a dark ruby center, carved with the Ricci insignia. My father’s ring. My inheritance.

I held it for a long moment, the metal cold against my palm. It didn’t shine the way I thought it would. It looked… tired, like it had seen too much blood.

Still, it was mine.

I closed the box and slipped it into the pocket of my robe.

“Finally,” I murmured, turning toward the door.

The handle moved before I reached it.

I froze.

The door opened slowly, quietly, as if whoever stood outside already knew what was waiting inside.

Silvestro stepped in, one hand still on the handle, the other holding a half-empty glass. He wasn’t surprised.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice calm.

I said nothing.

He took a few slow steps forward, his eyes moving around the room, from the open safe, to the books out of place, and the faintly glowing keypad.

Then his gaze found me.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t rest easy here,” he said after a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ve never been the type to stay put.”

I didn’t answer.

He stopped a few feet away, his expression wasn't stoic this time around. He seemed… amused?

Then he said it.

“Just like before, huh?” His tone dropped lower, almost thoughtful. “Breaking into my space to steal something that’s already half yours.”