The high tables

Papa

"The Rossis are desperate," he said. "They’ve been losing ground for years, and now Gabriel is trying to salvage what’s left. He thinks he can scare us into an alliance, but he’s wrong. We don’t need them. We never have. If there’s a war coming, we’ll fight it on our terms, not theirs."

I nodded, though a part of me still felt that nagging sense of doubt. Gabriel had seemed so certain, so sure that something was happening, something that could destroy both of our families. And while I didn’t trust him, I couldn’t ignore the possibility that he might know something we didn’t.

But my father’s confidence was contagious, and I found myself pushing those doubts aside. He had led our family through worse before, and he had never steered us wrong. If he said we were ready, then we were ready.

"Get some rest," my father said, his tone softening slightly. "You’ve had a long night, and we have work to do tomorrow."

I stood up, my body still tense but my mind a little clearer. "Of course, Papa."

As I turned to leave the study, my father’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Isabella."

I looked back at him, and for a moment, his expression softened, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

"Remember," he said, "we don’t trust anyone. Not the Rossis, not anyone outside this family. Blood is the only thing that matters."

I nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy blanket.

"Blood is everything," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

With that, I left the study, the door clicking shut behind me. As I made my way through the darkened halls of the villa, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, something bigger than any of us had anticipated. But whatever it was, I knew one thing for sure.

We would be ready.

I would be ready.

As I walked down the dimly lit hallway, my father’s words still echoed in my mind "Blood is the only thing that matters." It had always been our thing, the unspoken rule that guided every decision we made. I repeated it to myself like a mantra, letting it solidify my resolve as I moved deeper into the silence of the house.

But just as I was about to climb the grand staircase to my room and leave another day behind, I heard a harsh, gutty sound from behind me, followed by a muffled cough. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. I rushed to the study. I entered only to see my father still sitting behind his desk in the study, the cigar now forgotten, his broad shoulders hung over as he coughed into a handkerchief.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him cough. I’d noticed it more often over the past few months. But this time was different. This time, it wasn’t just a cough; it was a violent, body-shaking cough that seemed to seize him completely, as though his lungs were betraying him with every breath.

"Papa?" I called, my voice sharper than I intended as I hurried towards him.

He waved me off weakly with his free hand, his other still pressed against his mouth. "I’m fine," he rasped between fits of coughing, his voice hoarse and strained. "Go to bed, Isabella. I’m fine."

But he wasn’t fine. Anyone could see that.

I reached his side in a few long strides, my concern now outweighing the iron mask I always wore in front of him. He was pale, his usually strong posture slumped as if the weight of his own body was too much to bear. The handkerchief he held against his mouth was dotted with bits of blood, and a chill ran down my spine at the sight.

"Papa," I said again, softer this time, as I gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "You’re not fine. We need to get you help."

He brushed my hand away with a bit of frustration. "I don’t need help," he snapped, though the force of his voice was weakened by the cough that followed. "I’m not some weak old man."

I swallowed the lump of fear that had formed in my throat. My father, Matteo De Luca, was the strongest man I had ever known, a titan in our world, a figure who commanded respect and fear with nothing more than his presence. But now, looking at him hunched over and struggling to breathe, I saw a side of him I had never allowed myself to see before fragility.

"I’m calling the doctor," I said firmly, already pulling my phone from my coat pocket.

"No!" His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength for a man in his condition. His grip was tight, almost painful, as he looked up at me with fire in his eyes. "No doctors. No one can know about this."

I stared at him, my mouth opening to argue, but I stopped myself. I understood, even though I didn’t like it. In our world, weakness was more dangerous than any enemy. If word got out that Matteo De Luca, the head of the De Luca family and biggest crime boss, was unwell, you already know it would be. It would be seen as a vulnerability, a crack in our stronghold that everyone would try to exploit.

But I couldn’t just stand by and watch you fall apart.

"You can’t keep ignoring this, Papa," I said, my voice softer now, though the urgency was still there. "This is serious. You need help, and I’m not going to just sit here and pretend everything’s fine."