All That Was Forgotten

Chapter 6

The moment I found my way back into the ballroom, the lights had dimmed.

A rush rippled through the crowd, soft but immediate, like the room itself was holding its breath. The string quartet faded out, conversations turned hushed as all heads turned towards the small stage at the far end of the hall. Draped in gold, flanked by tall arrangements of white roses.

A man in a tailored suit, with dark hair and a charismatic smile, one of Italy's famous TV hosts stepped up into the microphone. His smile was polite, rehearsed, carrying its usual charm.

"Signore e signori," he boomed, his accent echoing across the marble. "Distinguished guests, honored families and esteemed friends of the prestigious Ricci lineage...welcome."

Applause scattered through the hall, as I slipped toward the edge of the crowd. My pulse is still unsteady from the encounter in the garden. But I forced myself to swallow it down, hide it deep within as I leaned against the marble pillar, watching.

"As you all know," the host continued, "tonight we gather not only to celebrate the new year, but to honor a man whose legacy has shaped our world for generations."

The words washed over me like ice.

"A visionary. A leader. Philantropist. But most of all, the symbol of power and tradition," he paused. "It is my privilege to introduce to you all, the head of the Ricci family, the man of the night himself, Lorenzo Ricci."

The ballroom erupted. Cheers and applause filled the air. Cameras flashed like lightning.

Grandfather appeared at the foot of the stage, flanked by his men. One hand on his cane, as he climbed up the steps. His back to the crowd. He simply nodded that cold, regal tilt of his head that made grown men straighten their spines.

I watched him ascend the steps slowly, proudly, as if each one was a throne of its own.

He reached the microphone, lifted his chin, and the room fell silent again.

Once he began to speak, I still couldn't shake the feeling that, somewhere in the shadows, there was still a pair of green eyes, watching the stage. Waiting.

Grandfather adjusted the microphone, leaning just slightly on his cane and letting the silence stretch. Commanding the room with nothing more than his breath.

"Grazie," he began, his voice steady, like a gravel deepened by age and power. "Thank you all for being here tonight."

He swept his gaze across the ballroom. Over the powerful people, the heirs, the businessmen, politicians, who were anything but killers dressed like aristocrats. They looked at him with reverence, some with cold, hard expressions.

"To reach eighty-three..." he paused, exhaling a dry laugh. "It is a blessing many men in our world do not live to see."

A murmur of agreement moved through the hall.

"I have lived a long life," he continued, "a life built on victories and losses, on blood and loyalty." His smile was thin, sharp as razor. "And I have learned, over these decades, that life is...short. Far shorter than any of us like to admit."

The guests listened with devout silence.

"But even in that shortness," he said, voice lowering, "I have been fortunate. Fortunate to have someone, one person, who has remained constant. One who carries my blood. My legacy. My name."

My stomach tightened.

"My family," he went on, "has known tragedy. Loss and betrayal. Yet she was the only one who endured. She has returned to me, again and again." His eyes found mine in the crowd. "The last of my true lineage. The future of everything I have built."

A ripple went through the room. Anticipation. Calculation.

He lifted a hand, pointing not with affection, but with ownership.

"My granddaughter," he declared, "Isolda Ricci."

Whispers exploded behind me.

"I'd like to ask her to join me onstage."

The spotlight swung toward where I stood. Heat rushed up my spine as hundreds of eyes turned my way.

I forced a smile, one that I'd been used to giving, before stepping toward the stage. Toward my grandfather. The legacy that had always felt less like a birthright and more like a gilded cage, tightening with every breath.

Each step echoed with the life I no longer recognized, the life I've never asked for. I didn't want the spotlight. And especially not power. I just wanted my old life back. Being in the field, hidden within the shadows. The freedom of being nothing more, nothing less, than being the most revered assassin in the Famiglia.

I climbed the last step, my heartbeat steady only because I forced it to be, as I took my grandfather's extended hand. Weathered, but commanding. The hand of a man who had built empires and buried enemies.

His fingers closed around mine with surprising warmth, grounding me and trapping me all at once. He smiled to the crowd, proud and unshakable while I stood right next to him, wearing the mask I had crafted years ago.

"Tonight," he said, "I stand before you at eighty-three years old, grateful for every battle survived. Every friend and foe who shaped my path."

The room hushed. Hundreds of eyes watching us.

"And grateful," he continued, lifting our joined hands slightly, "that, despite all I have lost... I still have her. My granddaughter, Isolda Ricci."

A wave of applause thundered through the hall.

"And as of tonight," he said, his smile sharp and proud. "I name her as my heir. The next to carry the Ricci legacy."

The reaction rippled through the room. Shock, approval, envy and calculation. Cameras clicked through the room. I fixed a warm smile, looking at Grandpa before facing the crowd like I had dreamed of this.

To him, this was glory. But to me, this was a sentence disguised as honor.

I held my grandfather's hand a moment longer, forcing myself not to pull away. Not to show the storm breaking inside my chest, as I smiled at the crowd. And died a little deeper behind my mask.