THE KISS OF THE UNDERBOSS

Celina’s POV I used to think ghosts were dead people. Now I know better. You don’t have to die to disappear. You just need to lose everything. And I did. I came back to California like a shadow. No warning. No goodbye. No one waiting for me. I was gone a year. Maybe more. I don’t count days anymore. Only losses. People used to say the name Moretti with respect. Now they say it quiet, or not at all. Like it’s cursed. Like saying it too loud might get them shot. That’s the name I carry. I stepped out of the airport with nothing but a duffel bag and the taste of old blood in my mouth. Hot air. Car horns. Smell of piss and perfume. Los Angeles still smelled like home and hell at the same time. I lit a cigarette I told myself I wasn’t gonna smoke. But my hands were already shaking, and I needed something. Anything. Nobody looked at me twice. That’s how you know you're nobody now. No stares. No whispers. Just silence. And it’s loud. A black car pulled up. I knew it was for me. Frankie Bellini was driving. Still dressed in all black like always. Shades on, even though the sun was damn near gone. Still quiet, still Frankie. He didn’t hug me. Didn’t smile. Just looked at me like I wasn’t real. “You look different,” he said. “I feel worse,” I told him. That made him smile a little. Barely. He opened the door. I got in. No music. Just us. And the city passing by like it didn’t miss me at all. He didn’t ask where I’d been. And I didn’t offer. That’s how it works with us. You disappear, you come back, and no one speaks on it. If you’re still breathing, that’s enough. But I wasn’t just breathing. I was burning. We drove in silence for a while. The kind that ain’t peaceful the kind that fills up the car like smoke. I watched the streetlights flash across the window. Los Angeles looked older. Or maybe I did. Frankie finally spoke when we hit the freeway. “Victor know you’re back?” I laughed. Low, dry, bitter. “If he didn’t, he will by morning.” Frankie didn’t say nothing to that. Just gripped the wheel tighter. Victor Sionelli. Acting Don. Luca’s uncle. The kind of man who smiles when he’s about to ruin your life. Last time I saw him, I was bleeding from the lip and trying not to cry in front of him. I still remember what he said. “You're your father's daughter. That’s not a compliment.” I should’ve killed him for that. Maybe I still will. Frankie pulled off the freeway and turned into the hills. The roads got quiet, dark, expensive. You could always tell you were near Sionelli territory everything looked clean, cold, and watched. “Where we going?” I asked. He didn’t look at me. “Luca said bring you to the house.” My stomach tightened. “I thought he wasn’t in town.” Frankie didn’t answer. Typical. That’s Luca Sionelli for you. You never know where he is, but somehow he always knows where you are. Like a shadow. Like something made of smoke and control. I used to dream about him. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was a threat and a prayer at the same time. But dreams change. And so do people. Now I didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him or cut him. Probably both. The car stopped at the gates. They opened like they were expecting me. Which they were. We drove past the guards. Past the lights. Up the long driveway that curved like a snake. The Sionelli estate sat at the top like a goddamn palace. White stone. Black windows. Nothing friendly about it. I hated how much I still remembered. Frankie parked. Got out. I grabbed my bag and followed him up the steps. He didn’t knock. Just opened the door like he still lived there. Maybe he did. Some people never leave. Inside was cold. Rich. Perfect. The kind of perfect that hides blood in the walls. The same table. Same floor. Same air. Everything the same except me. Frankie turned to me at the stairs. “You got a room upstairs. Third door on the right. You need anything, call Rosa.” I nodded. “What about Luca?” “He’ll find you when he’s ready.” That made me laugh again, but it didn’t sound right. He always found me when he was ready. And never when I was. I went up the stairs alone. My boots made soft sounds on the marble. I passed paintings of dead men with dead eyes. Family, they said. Legacy, they said. All I saw was greed. I reached the door. Opened it slow. It was a guest room. Big. Clean. Empty. Just like me. I dropped my bag on the bed and sat down hard. I didn’t cry. I didn’t breathe deep. I didn’t pray. I just sat there with the ghosts. And waited for him to come. I lay back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling. The kind of ceiling rich people have high, white, empty. Not a single crack. Not a single story. I used to want this life. The safety. The marble floors. The kind of silence that came with money. But now? It just felt fake. I pulled off my boots. My jeans were stiff from the ride. My shirt stuck to my skin from the sweat. California heat didn’t care that the sun went down. Neither did the past. I stared at my phone. Still no messages. Not even Nora. She was the only one I thought might’ve cared. My best friend since we were kids. The one who used to sneak cigarettes with me behind the church. The one who hacked my father’s safe when we were fifteen just to see if she could. But even she went quiet when I disappeared. Maybe that was smart. Maybe they told her to stay away. I closed my eyes. Just for a minute. Just to stop thinking. And then I felt it. That shift in the air. That tension. That heat behind my neck like someone watching. I opened my eyes. He was standing in the doorway. Luca. Not a word. Not a sound. Just him, dressed in black like always. Hair slicked back, shoulders like stone, face like a mask carved out of patience and power. I sat up, but I didn’t speak. Neither did he. We just stared at each other. So much passed between us without saying a thing. The fights. The kisses. The betrayal. The almosts. The never-agains. Then finally, he stepped in. Slow. Like a storm about to break. “You came back,” he said. His voice hadn’t changed. Still low. Still calm. Still dangerous. “I didn’t come for you,” I said. Lie. He smirked like he knew. “You shouldn’t be here.” “You sent Frankie.” “I thought I told him not to.” I stood up. Face to face now. Same height. Same heat. “You always were bad at letting go.” He tilted his head. “And you were always good at running.” That hit me in the chest. I didn’t flinch, but I felt it. I hated how much power he still had. One sentence, and I was back in that room two years ago. Back when we were both reckless. Before everything fell apart. He stepped closer. “I should tell you to leave.” “Then tell me.” He didn’t. I saw his jaw tighten. His hands twitch like he was holding something back words, anger, want. Maybe all of it. Instead, he said, “Victor knows. He’s not happy.” “Is he ever?” Luca didn’t smile. “He thinks you’re here to start trouble.” “Maybe I am.” “Are you?” I looked him dead in the eye. “I came back to finish what my father started.” That made him go still. Real still. Like the air stopped moving. “You sure you’re ready for that?” he asked. “I don’t have a choice.” He nodded once. Cold. Sharp. “Then you better not run this time.” And just like that, he turned and walked out. Didn’t look back. Didn’t say goodnight. That was Luca Sionelli. He never chased. He just waited for the world to come to him. I sat back on the bed. Heart loud. Head louder. And I knew, right then This wasn’t just a return. It was a war.