The Heiress Kill

Chapter 6: Royal Blood and Coffee

Isabella swallowed down a scream and plastered on the fakest smile she could manage.

She grabbed the journal from the chair and shoved it under a dusty garden cushion with the grace of a drunk raccoon.

By the time Dante stepped onto the terrace, she was sitting again, legs crossed, one hand clutching her coffee like a lifeline, the other nervously smoothing her hair.

“Buongiorno,” he said, voice low and smooth as aged whiskey.

“Morning,” she replied, way too fast. “What a surprise! I mean—uh—you didn’t call. Not that you have my number. Obviously. Why would you?”

He said nothing, just slowly pulled out the wrought iron chair across from her and sat down like he owned the air between them.

She watched as he leaned back, stretching his long legs like he had all the time in the world.

“You drink your coffee black,” he said.

Isabella blinked. “What?”

He pointed lazily at her mug. “It tells me something. About you.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” she asked, forcing a grin that did not match her racing pulse.

“You like to pretend you’re tougher than you are.”

A pause.

“But you’re tougher than even you know.”

She stared at him. That was not the answer she expected. She reached for another cigarette, hands shaking only slightly, and lit it.

Dante tilted his head, watching her exhale smoke into the morning sun.

“I know who you are,” he said, just like that.

Everything inside her went still.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. Her blood roared in her ears.

“You’re Isabella Palucci,” he continued, his voice calm but heavy with meaning. “Daughter of Francesco. Granddaughter of Don Gaspare.”

The name hit her like a slap.

He let the silence stretch between them. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“How—how do you know that?” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned forward now, forearms resting on the table, eyes locked to hers like a predator who had already sunk his teeth in.

“I have friends who look into things,” he said. “Your arrival didn’t go unnoticed. And neither did your little performance last night.”

She flushed, glaring. “Well, sorry if I bruised your ego, Don Moretti.”

At that, he smiled—slow, amused, dark. It wasn’t kind.

“You didn’t bruise anything, principessa. You intrigued me.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“Why not? That’s what you are, isn’t it?” His gaze burned into her. “Cosa Nostra royalty. Blood of kings and killers.”

“I didn’t ask for any of that,” she shot back.

“Neither did I,” he said softly. “But here we are.”

The weight of those words hung in the air.

“You knew my grandfather?” she asked suddenly.

“I knew of him. Everyone in our world did. Gaspare Palucci was a legend. Cold and brilliant. Then he disappeared… vanished like smoke. We all thought he was dead or in exile.”

“I didn’t even know he existed until a week ago,” Isabella muttered.

“He was protecting you,” Dante said. “Keeping you off the chessboard.”

She blinked.

“But now,” he added, “you’ve been moved back into play.”

The world felt suddenly too big, the sea too close, her coffee far too cold.

“And what? You’ve come to… what?

Warn me?

Threaten me?

Claim me?”

Dante leaned back again, eyes unreadable.

“No,” he said. “I came to see for myself.”

“See what?”

“If you’re as dangerous as your blood says you are.”

She stood abruptly. “Well, newsflash, I’m not. I’m just a girl with a f****d-up past and an old house full of ghosts. I’m not mafia. I’m not anything.”

Dante rose too—slowly, deliberately—and stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

“You are something, Isabella. You just don’t know what yet.”

Her breath caught.

And then, before she could respond, he reached into his coat pocket and placed a small velvet box on the table between them.

“Gaspare left this with my family a long time ago. In case you ever came home.”

He turned, walking away as calmly as he arrived.

“Wait—” she called after him.

He paused at the edge of the terrace, casting her one last look over his shoulder.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t hide your grandfather’s journal under a cushion. It deserves more respect than that.”

And then he disappeared down the steps.

Isabella stood frozen, stunned, staring at the velvet box like it might explode.

She had no idea what scared her more.

The secrets inside the journal…

Or the man who knew them all.