All That Was Forgotten

Chapter 2

There's a party tonight.

One celebrating Grandpa's birthday, on New Year's Eve, no less. Which meant everyone would be there. Nearly every member of our Famiglia, along with business partners and representatives from the other syndicates. As a show of peace. At least, on the surface.

It was supposed to be a spectacle. And with so many powerful guests attending, security was at an all-time high. Grandpa was too paranoid to host it at our family's estate, so the celebration was moved to a luxury hotel overlooking the Sicilian coast in Palermo. Neutral ground, he called it. A symbol of peace, for a single night.

I rode in silence beside him, the hum of the car filling the space between us. That was how he liked it. Quiet.

He never cared for music, except for the kind without words. The one he said "sounded like numbers", claiming they echoed the rhythm of his brain. It was rather unfair, really, how I remembered some of my life, every small habit of his, every detail of our world...except for the things that matter.

The last three years of my life. The most crucial ones.

"How are you feeling, Isolda?" he asked, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence.

I turned to him, only to find him staring out the window, the reflection of passing lights slicing across his sharp profile.

"Nervous," I admitted, my voice steadier than I felt.

He waved a dismissive hand, a sharp scoff cutting through the hum of the car. "Nonsense," he said, turning his cold blue eyes toward me. "You've done this plenty of times. You're my heir, the one who'll inherit everything once I'm gone. You have no right to be nervous. They are all beneath you, capisci?"

His gaze pinned me to my seat, the weight of expectation pressing like a hand around my throat.

"Yes, Grandfather," I murmured.

A flicker of displeasure crossed his face. "Nonno," he corrected softly, but there was steel in his tone. "You should call me Nonno from now on. You're Italian by blood, despite what that—" his lips curled slightly "—despite what your b***h mother tried to make of you."

He looked away again, as if the very memory of her disgusted him. I swallowed the tightness in my chest, the word Nonno tasting like ash on my tongue, looking away.

For a moment, I just stared out the window, watching the lights blurring past. My pulse thudded somewhere behind my ribs. Slow, heavy and restrained. It always felt like this around him. Like every breath needed permission.

That creeping feeling returned again. The one that whispered that something about him is wrong. The way people, even the strongest, most powerful ones, would go still when he'd enter. The way no one ever said no to him, not even in jest.

But I shoved it down, the same way I always did. He was my Nonno. He raised me ever since my parents passed in a building explosion, along with his other children. I was the only one left.

He was the one who paid for my therapies. Who made sure I got better. Sat beside my hospital bed when no one else did. Evil men didn't do that, right?

I clenched my hands in my lap, forcing my voice to stay calm when I finally speak.

"I know, Nonno. I'll make you proud tonight."

He smiled then. Thin, cold and full of pride that felt like ownership.

"Good."

And just like that, the ache in my chest quieted again.

The cold didn't last long. The moment the car rolled to a stop, warmth and noise rushed in from the outside. Cameras flashed in a blinding frenzy as we pulled up to the entrance of the venue.

A crimson carpet stretched up the marble steps, leading to a grand hotel that looked more like an old ducal palace than a place for tourists. Its stone walls gleamed under the golden light, the window glowing like watchful eyes. Grandpa hadn't spared a single expense. Tonight was his spectacle. The night he would announce me as his heir to the Famiglia.

One of his men hurried to open his door, and Grandpa stepped out slowly. His cane striking the pavement with authority, his other hand lifting in a measured wave toward the cameras. The picture of power and control, despite his age.

I rounded the car and joined him, my heels clicking against the stone. The red of my dress catching the light, silk whispering around my legs, white gloves gleaming against the glitter of the jewels that had belonged to our family for generations. They felt heavy on my skin, wrong. Like they're reminders, or maybe shackles.

Grandpa offered me his hand, and I took it. I should've been the one guiding him. His steps had grown slower over the years, but pride wouldn't let him show weakness, especially not in front of the flashing cameras. So, I matched his pace, one careful step up at a time, making sure he didn't stumble.

All while the shutters behind us clicked and flared like gunfire, our names shouted into the night.

To the public, we are untouchable. Desendants of old Italian nobility, owners of empires dressed in marble and glass. But behind the facade, we were something else entirely. The most feared family in the underworld. Generations of power, violence and blood hidden beneath tailored suits and polite smiles.

At the top of the stairs, Grandpa released my hand. His gaze cut to mine, sharp and worldess, a silent command as if to remind me who we are. Then he turned towards the crowd and raise his hand in a regal wave.

I follow his lead, lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. We might've acted and looked like modern royalty, but the truth was simpler. Much darker. Because I've never felt like a princess. No, just another piece in his empire's illusion.

And as always, I did what I did best, in these situations. I pretended.

The doors opened with a soft creak, and the sound of string instruments spilling into the hall. Elegant, poised and carefully curated like everything else about our lives. The foyer shimmered under the golden chandeliers, filled with guests loitering outside the ballroom ahead. Laughter drifted between clinking glasses, perfume and cigar smoke weaving through the air like ghosts of the past.

I stay close to Grandpa as we entered, feeling the weight of eyes turning toward us. Allies, rivals, politicians, celebrities, vultures. My gloved hand brushed the side of my red dress, steadying myself as I offered them the kind of smile I've worn in these events.

Then a flicker of movement caught the corner of my eye. Somewhere in the corner of the foyer.

I turned my head, just slightly.

A tall man stood half in shadow. The golden light catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the crisp line of his black suit. His stance was relaxed, but there was a tension in teh air that seemed to hum toward me. When his gaze, those familiar dark green eyes found mine, the noise of the room dulled into a distant echo.

He smiled. Slow, and knowing. Like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

My body froze.

That grin. I sweat I've seen it before. In the photo, in the file, one of Grandpa's men had handed me earlier.

The air thinned around me.

Alexandre Barinov.

The name echoed through my chest, ringing like an alarm bell I couldn't silence.