Not a Nobody

A War?

Late that night, Max leaned against the rail of his private balcony, swirling a glass of whiskey as the city lights flickered below like dying stars. With a calculated tone, he dialed Giovannie. The phone rang once. Twice.

"Gio," Max said as soon as the line clicked.

"We need to talk. Face-to-face. My club. Twenty minutes."

No more words were needed. Giovannie, ever the shadow in the dark, gave a low grunt and hung up.

Across town, under pulsing neon and the bass of heavy synth beats, the Salvatore Club was alive. Max's domain — a front for power, deals, and secrets cloaked in music and indulgence.

Giovannie arrived first, dressed in all black, walking in with the stillness of a storm about to strike. The guards nodded and stepped aside immediately. Max was already seated in the deep end of the club’s lounge, a private section cut off from the main chaos.

They greeted each other with a simple nod — no warmth, just understanding. Before they even sat down, Max poured Gio a drink and pushed it toward him.

Meanwhile, across the club, unseen to both men, Viola entered from the VIP entrance on the upper level, flanked by two of her flashy, rebellious friends. She wore a red silk slip dress, lips the color of wine, and eyes that scanned the room like she owned it. She didn’t notice Max or Giovannie. Nor did they notice her.

Viola slid into the velvet booth with her girls, ordering bottle service and tossing her hair back like royalty. Moments later, the club’s male performers took the stage. Her friends cheered — and Viola, laughing with a drink in hand, leaned back, soaking up the attention, the rebellion, the escape from being the “second mistress.” Tonight, she was queen — at least in her little corner of the world.

Back in the dark lounge, Max leaned forward, cutting to the chase.

"You've been quiet about the proposal.We wants an answer."

Giovannie stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid. Then he said, flatly, “I don’t want tradition. I want blood.”

Giovannie leaned back in the deep leather seat, his face mostly in shadow, only the flicker of neon catching the sharp line of his jaw. Max sat opposite, watching him closely. The distant thrum of music and bursts of laughter from the VIP area barely cut through the tension.

Giovannie’s eyes flicked upward again, just for a moment — catching a glimpse of Viola, still laughing, draped in red, her friends loud and drunk on attention. She tossed her hair, flirted with the dancer, lifted her glass as if she ruled the kingdom above.

Max followed his gaze, then looked back at Gio, smirking knowingly.

“She’s all yours, you know,” Max said dryly. “If that’s the kind of Salvatore bride you want.”

Giovannie didn’t flinch. He slowly brought the glass to his lips, sipped, then said without emotion,

“I don’t want her.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“She’s too noisy,” Gio replied. “Too eager. Wants to be seen.”

“Then you prefer someone invisible?” Max said, amused.

Giovannie’s jaw twitched, but he kept his tone measured. “I prefer someone who isn’t acting all the time.”

Max leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “You mean Fiona.”

Gio didn’t answer at first. He kept his face still, knowing full well Max could smell weakness like blood in water. He played it cool.

“She’s untouched by all this,” he said finally. Still believes in soft things. That could be... valuable.”

Max smirked. “Valuable?” He leaned back. “You talk like a businessman.”

“Because I am one,” Gio answered coldly. “This deal… it’s about legacy. Not love.”

Max’s eyes stayed on him. “Good. Because love has no place in our world,” But for her, I chose the one who she loves and The one who protects her from all the enemies. You know me gio,I missed her half of my life. Now that I have got her back, I want to do her right.

But Giovannie didn’t respond. Instead, his fingers drummed once against the table, controlled, steady — the only sign of emotion breaking through. Because deep down, he knew the truth:

He didn’t want an empire.

He didn’t care about politics now

He wanted her, He wanted Fiona.

Her softness. Her honesty. Her eyes that looked at him without fear.

But he would never say it in front of Max.

Not yet.

Not until he had the power to protect her from all the enemy who wants her dead.

Meanwhile, Viola overheard a group of random girls giggling and gawking toward a direction she couldn't quite make out. The strobe lights on the dance floor were flashing wildly, obscuring her view. Curious about who had caught their attention, Viola and her friends stepped down from the platform, gossiping amongst themselves.

As she moved past the dancers, her eyes locked onto a familiar silhouette.

Giovannie.

Seated comfortably in the VIP section.

And right beside him—Maximus, her brother.

Viola’s heart skipped. The sudden presence of both men in the same space sent a wave of unease rushing through her. She instinctively adjusted her dress, smoothed her hair, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey neat from the bar, her steps confident but heart pounding.

She made her way toward them, entering the exclusive VIP area with her friends trailing behind.

But as she approached, Gio didn’t even look up.

He continued sipping his drink, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere away from her—deliberately avoiding her gaze.

Maximus, on the other hand, barely acknowledged her, too preoccupied typing something on his phone while occasionally scanning the dance floor.

Viola stood there, bottle in hand, suddenly feeling exposed. The girls behind her fell silent, the tension unmistakable.

She smiled faintly to mask the growing burn of embarrassment in her chest.

This was supposed to be her moment.

But now—she was just a shadow in their spotlight.

Viola forced a smile and took a sip of the whisky, the bitter burn doing little to settle her nerves. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she took a seat at the edge of their VIP lounge, deliberately choosing a spot close enough to be noticed—but not too desperate.

Her friends awkwardly followed, whispering among themselves. The music thumped around them, but the real noise was in Viola’s head.

Gio still didn’t look at her.

Not even a glance. Not even a twitch.

As if she were a stranger.

Maximus finally glanced up from his phone, one brow raised at her uninvited presence.

"You lost, Viola?" he asked dryly, voice laced with sarcasm.

"This isn’t your usual crowd."

Viola tilted her head, her lips curving into a smirk.

"Just thought I’d enjoy the view. Didn’t know this side had… such interesting company."

She said it while finally locking eyes with Gio, hoping—begging silently—for something. A flicker of warmth, a memory, anything.

But Gio only took another sip of his drink and leaned over to whisper something to Maximus. Whatever it was made Maximus chuckle.

Viola felt the humiliation crawl under her skin.

Her friends were trying to keep cool, pretending they didn’t notice the cold shoulder, but their shifting eyes and forced laughter made it worse.

Suddenly, one of the girls from earlier—the one who had been gawking—giggling seeing viola in this situation and saw viola sitting alone, not noticed by Gio, seeing this

Viola’s chest tightened.

"Let’s go," she said quickly to her friends, standing up with what's left of her pride.

"This place is getting boring."

Maximus leaned back in his seat, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as he watched Viola storm out with her little minions. For once, things were going exactly the way he wanted. Gio had made his choice clear.

“Good boy,” Maximus muttered under his breath, sipping his drink, pleased to see his sister’s pride bruised. The more Gio fell toward Fiona, his chosen ally, the easier it would be to keep Viola out of the Salvatore circle of power.

Meanwhile, Viola’s heels echoed down the corridor outside the club lounge, her anger bubbling beneath her cool exterior. Behind her composed face, a storm was forming.

“Fiona,” she whispered to herself with venom, All of this happening because of your unwanted arrival in my life“always the sweet little thing. Let’s see how sweet she looks when her world starts falling apart.”

Viola sat by the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse, the city lights reflecting off the whisky glass in her hand—still untouched since the club.

Her lips were pressed tight, her mind replaying the scene on loop:

Gio whispering to Maximus.

Maximus laughing.

Fiona’s name dancing in the air like a curse.

What stung more than anything was how Maximus looked at Fiona now—with the kind of protective warmth Viola once craved from him. The cold, quiet brother she grew up with… suddenly had a sister he smiled at. A sister he chose.

And Viola wasn’t her.

"My less-talking, less-breathing brother now has a favourite," she muttered bitterly, swirling the drink in her hand. "And it’s not me."

But worse… far worse… was Giovannie.

She couldn’t understand it.

Yes, Gio had always kept a distance. Their “moments” were fleeting, usually under the disguise of public appearances—posing for the cameras, exchanging smirks at charity galas,Nothing official. Nothing serious. But something.

Until now.

Now, he wouldn’t even look at her.

Not even pretend.

"He used to ignore me… but not like this. Not when people were watching."

Tonight was different. Tonight, it wasn’t apathy.

It was dismissal.

And it hit Viola’s pride like a blade through silk.

Her jaw clenched as her fingers tightened around her phone. She opened Gio’s public profile—pictures of him exiting the club with maximus circulated already.

Viola closed the screen and took a breath.

"If my brother thinks Fiona will replace me, and Gio thinks he can play me like this…"

She paused, eyes flickering with a new sharpness.

"Let’s see how long their pretty little bond survives what I’m about to set in motion."

She dialed a number—an old friend from the PR underworld, someone who owed her favors.

“I want a story planted. Soft at first. Let’s call it… a whisper campaign. Paint Fiona as a imposter as fake heir. Nothing too loud yet. Just enough smoke to make people wonder where the fire is.”

She ended the call and finally took a sip of her drink, the bitterness matching her mood.

In the reflection of the glass, Viola didn’t see a girl who was lost.

She saw a girl ready to take back her stage—by any means necessary.

Fiona stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her fingers lightly brushing over her collarbone where a silver chain rested—a gift from Maximus, given without words, like most things he did.

She had always lived in the background.

A quiet life.

A simple existence.

And yet, recently, the lights had started to turn toward her—and she wasn’t sure if it was warmth… or heat.

Fiona reached for the face cream, but her fingers paused as she spotted her phone screen light up.

Anonymous Tag: "Fiona salvatore—Beauty or Snake in Disguise? Click to read more."

She tapped it. The article was vague, speculative, but it hinted at enough to raise brows:

“Sudden rise in society circles… Whispers of charm used for influence… Connections to Maximus Salvatore and now Giovannie?”

Her chest tightened.

She refreshed the screen—three more blogs had picked it up.

“What is this…” she whispered, eyes scanning the cruelly veiled lines.

A faint knock at the door startled her.

It was her housekeeper.

Fiona frowned.

She took the envelope—it was thick, matte black, and sealed with a red wax stamp in the shape of a crow's foot. Something about it made her hesitate.

She slowly peeled it open.

Inside, cushioned in black velvet, were three disturbing things:

A dried black rose, its petals crumbling, sharp with the scent of something sour.

A crow feather, smooth and ominous.

And a piece of raw meat, small, wrapped in gauze, still faintly red. Fresh.

Fiona's breath caught. Her fingers trembled.

At the bottom of the envelope was a small card, handwritten in crimson ink:

"Blood attracts the crow. And the crow always comes for what’s dying."

-And I am coming for you

Fiona dropped the envelope instinctively, heart racing, nausea curling in her throat.

This wasn’t just a threat.

This was a ritualistic warning.

A symbol of death. A curse. An omen.

Someone didn’t just want her gone—they wanted her scared. Marked.

She backed away from the package, her skin crawling. Who would send something like this?