Chapter 5
1857 Words
Lavinia’s POV
Morning came slow and unwanted. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of one the Ricci offices, but it felt like it was mocking me. I sat alone at the end of the dining table...long, polished, and empty...my coffee cup in hand.
Black. No cream. No sugar. Bitter enough to match my mood.
The cup didn’t help. Neither did the silence.
The taste sat on my tongue while my mind replayed every second of last night’s disaster. The La Cupola meeting had been postponed—of course. The old men couldn’t agree on anything but their hatred for my ovaries.
“Women shouldn’t lead.”
“Her place is in the kitchen.”
“Where is Nestore?”
“Blah, blah, patriarchal bullshit.”
I let out a long breath, fingers tapping against the porcelain. But it wasn’t just their whining that bothered me.
It was him.
That smug son of a b***h, Stephen.
With my mafia inheritance cupped in his smug, calloused hands and that damn smirk. Of all the men my father could've tied my fate to, why him?
How the hell did Don Ricci, the most paranoid bastard to walk this earth, trust Stephen? That man made my life hell back in the States. Hell.
He didn’t just burn my businesses... he bombed them. Poisoned my suppliers. Bribed my guards. Shot my accountant in the spine. Skinned a guard of mine alive and mailed me the footage like a Valentine’s card.
And now I’m supposed to marry him? Bullshit
I’d rather bathe in acid and drink it for dessert.
The coffee burned down my throat but didn’t scald enough to distract me. I grabbed my phone and stabbed at the screen.
“Elliot,” I said flatly when he picked up, “Get Mr. Aucci. In my office. Now.”
“Is everything alright, Madam?”
“Do I sound alright?”
Click.
Fifteen minutes later, the old man entered, cautious as a deer walking into a lion’s cage. His shoes clicked softly on the marble floor, hat in hand, spine straight.
“Donne,” he greeted gently, bowing his head.
I didn’t return it. I gestured at the seat across from me. “Sit.”
He obeyed, hands folded like a well-trained monk. I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes.
“How do you know Stephen?”
The air shifted. Just a fraction. Aucci blinked. “Stephen...?”
“Don’t play the ‘which Stephen?’ game with me, old man. The only one bold enough to carry my father’s legacy and annoying enough to still breathe.”
He cleared his throat. “Oh. Don Silvestro. Your father had... many acquaintances.”
“Acquaintance doesn’t equal heirloom guardian, Aucci,” I snapped. “That man ruined my life. Skinned Roy like a damn rabbit and sent me the video. Now you’re telling me my father gave him the most powerful symbol in the Ricci bloodline?”
Aucci squirmed a little. “It was… complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Don Ricci admired strength.”
I stared at him.
“Your father said Don Silvestro reminded him of himself.”
I choked on my coffee. “Of himself? My father was ruthless, yes. But he was Italian ruthless. Stephen’s just...psychotic! A mad man who needs drugs and therapy.” I still refuse to acknowledge that that man is an Italian. A don of ’Ndrangheta.
“He’s... efficient.”
“He’s insane!” I yelled. “And why did my father never mention this ‘respect’ he had for a man who burned down half my East Coast holdings?”
Aucci looked genuinely troubled. “Your father... believed Silvestro would protect you.”
I blinked. Then burst into laughter. Cold. Ugly.
“Protect me? By marrying me or murdering me first?”
He didn’t answer.
“Did they play chess together or something? Was this whole engagement planned while I was building my empire and dodging bullets from his men?”
“It was... a sort of understanding between them,” Aucci said slowly. “Business alliances. Blood debts. Promises.”
“And the part where he sliced open three of my men and fed them to dogs? Was that part of the promise too?”
Silence.
I rubbed my temples. “God, I should've just stayed in Chicago and built casinos with cartel cash. At least they text before killing someone.”
Aucci cleared his throat again. “Don Ricci believed the marriage would bring peace.”
I glared at him. “There will be peace, alright. Just after I slice Stephen’s throat during the vows.”
He didn’t flinch.
I leaned back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling, coffee still steaming in my hand. “I swear on every bullet in this estate, Aucci. If this man tries to touch me, smile at me, or even breathe near me too long…”
“Yes, Donne?”
“I’ll wear white to his funeral.”
I didn’t wait for Aucci’s stuttering excuses to finish.
The second he mumbled something about “building trust” and “your father saw something special,” I stood up and stormed out of the office, my heels striking the marble. I was done with cryptic old men and arranged corpse-weddings.
The coffee was still hot in my hand, steam rising from the rim.
As the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, I stepped in, muttering curses under my breath. But when the doors opened again on the ground floor, I was greeted with something far more interesting.
Six guns. All aimed at my face.
My brows lifted. “Really? We’re doing this before breakfast?”
The men stood in formation. Black suits, slicked hair, nerves of steel—or so they thought.
“Step out. Adesso.” They ordered.
I took a slow sip of my coffee and stepped out calmly, heels clicking, expression bored. I looked them over like they were dollar-store mannequins. They weren’t here to kill me, I could see it, they wanted to take me. Poor them.
“You know... if this is a kidnapping, it’s a really shitty one. No blindfold, no black van, no scary music? I’m offended.”
“Muoviti! Move!” one of them snapped, shoving the muzzle closer to my temple.
I let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Do you guys always shout like bad actors, or is this your first gig?”
Another gunman sneered and raised his hand like he meant to slap me.
Big mistake.
Very big mistake.
I took one last long sip of my coffee, then whipped the mug straight into his face, scorching liquid splashing into his eyes. He screamed—“Merda! Figlia di puttana!”—clutching his face as the mug shattered on his skull.
I laughed.
Loud and delighted.
“You really thought I’d come quietly? Amore, I put men like you in barrels.”
The remaining five immediately moved to attack, their guns raising again—but then came the sound that stopped everything.
Gunfire.
Loud. Fast. Precision bursts.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Five bodies dropped like puppets with cut strings. The marble floor was painted red.
Only one remained—the poor bastard still writhing from his coffee baptism.
He scrambled for his weapon, but I moved first. My heel dug into the floor as I launched forward, my leg slicing through the air with the grace of a dancer and the impact of a wrecking ball.
My stiletto connected with his jaw. Crack.
He collapsed instantly, knocked out cold.
I dusted off my hands, stepped over the bodies, and reached down to snatch his sunglasses. “I did need something new,” I muttered, sliding them onto my face.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Measured. Intentional.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Stephen.
Of course it was Stephen.
I turned slowly, the sunglasses now perched on my nose, blood-spattered glass behind me.
He walked in like the bastard he was, gun still in hand, casual as ever.
“Took you long enough,” I said flatly.
He looked around at the mess. “You were doing fine without me.”
“I always do.”
He holstered his weapon and raised a brow. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
He smirked. “No, but you screamed in a man’s face while pouring hot coffee on him. That’s gratitude enough.”
I walked past him, brushing his shoulder deliberately.
“Next time you want to be useful, arrive before I ruin my caffeine.”
“Next time,” he said smoothly behind me, “You’ll ruin your wedding cake instead.”
I stopped mid-step.
Turned slowly.
“What the f**k did you just say?”
Stephen tilted his head, eyes glittering with amusement. “You remember the marriage deadline, right? Maybe I didn't tell you, you have two days. Two days then the other families start voting for a new Don.”
I blinked at him, rage rising and consuming me.
“Oh, right. Marriage. How could I forget?” I snapped. “My breakfast got hijacked, my hallway is soaked in blood, and now I get a wedding reminder. How romantic.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied coolly. “For saving your life and reminding you of your commitment. Multitasking. I'm good hun?”
I stepped closer, eyes sharp, “Commitment? That wasn’t a commitment. That was a tactical insult.”
“Call it whatever you want, Donne. You marry me, you keep the throne. You don’t…” He shrugged. “You die. I don't have to kill you, your maniac of a brother will.”
My laugh was low and humorless. “You really do want to get shot at your own reception.”
“I just want to know what shade of lipstick you’ll wear when you say ‘I do.’”
Without blinking, I reached into the folds of my dress. The hidden slit along my thigh had never failed me.
A silver blade slid into my hand and I raised it—fast, fluid—pressing it against his throat with a hiss of steel against skin.
“I don’t wear lipstick,” I said softly. “I wear blood.”
But Stephen didn’t move.
Instead, I heard the slow, unmistakable click of his safety going off.
His pistol was aimed right at my temple. Point blank.
We stood there—frozen.
My blade to his throat. His gun to my skull.
His voice was quiet. Calm. Dangerous.
“Brava. You’ve got the hand of a killer, Lavinia.”
I smirked. “And you’ve got the charm of a body bag.”
We didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
The silence around us was thick. The hallway smelled like gunpowder and espresso. Somewhere, blood dripped onto tile.
Then, just as I tilted the blade harder against his skin, he whispered
“Make your move, sposa mia. Let’s see who dies first.”
Meaning:
Right now
Move!
Shit
Daughter of a whore
My bride.
- Writer
