Principessa
1163 Words
Giuliana’s POV
I was five when I first held a gun.
Six when I saw a man shot between the eyes.
Eleven when I watched my mother die.
She collapsed in front of me, a black hole in the back of her skull, her blood spilling onto the dinner table. Into my soup. The scent of copper drowned out everything else.
I remember staring at my white top—no longer white. A single tear slipped down my cheek.
"Maria!" My father’s broken voice echoed as he clutched her body.
I reached for her hand, my small fingers rubbing against her cold skin. "Mama, open your eyes. The bad guys are gone now."
She didn’t.
"They won’t hurt you anymore. Papa will protect you."
But when I looked up at him, all I saw was grief. And guilt.
That night, I realized something. My father—Donatello Morano—hadn’t pulled the trigger. But he hadn’t stopped it either.
Since then, I secretly hated him.
I grew up surrounded by death. My father’s men never used silencers around me. He wanted me to hear the gunshots, to understand that this was my world.
"Stay away from love," he told me once. "It’s just a fairy tale meant for weak princesses."
Yet the night my mother died, he whispered into her hair, "Ti amo più della mia stessa respirazione." I love you more than my breath.
But love didn’t save her. It killed her.
I tried to tell him that once. I stood beside him while he scrubbed blood from his hands, my voice steady. "This is my life now. I won’t run from it."
He sighed. "You are my princess, not my soldier. Stick to your role."
"Like Mama did?" My voice was bitter. "You caged her. You made her believe she was safe. But you left her defenseless."
He said nothing.
I thought I had earned his respect.
I didn’t realize I had just started counting my days under his roof.
I am Giuliana Morano, the only daughter of Donatello Morano—heir to the second most powerful Italian mafia family in Colombia.
****
Years Later – The Gala
The Morano gala was always the same.
Elegant. Extravagant. Suffocating.
I played my role well. The perfect mafia princess—poised, untouchable, silent. But tonight, I felt restless. The air in the ballroom was thick, the music too loud, the people too fake.
So I left.
My silk gown trailed behind me as I stepped into the quiet hallway, inhaling deeply.
Then I saw it.
A single red flower in a glass vase by the window.
It was nothing—just decor, placed there to brighten the cold corridors. But the sight of it made my stomach tighten.
Because red had never meant beauty to me.
It meant blood.
And just like that, a memory came crashing back.
I was seven. I should have listened.
Mama had always told me to stay where it was safe, to never question things that weren’t meant for me. But that night, I had wanted to prove something—I had wanted to show I wasn’t afraid.
So I followed her.
She had been tense all evening, her hands gripping the pearls around her neck, her eyes flicking toward the clock. I had never seen her like that before.
I snuck behind her as she walked toward the private wing of the house, my tiny feet silent against the cold marble floors.
She met with a man I didn’t recognize.
He wasn’t one of Papa’s men. He was too calm, too sure of himself.
"You shouldn't have come," she whispered urgently.
"Maria," the man sighed. "It's done. You need to leave before he finds out."
Leave? Leave what?
Then Mama’s body went rigid.
She turned sharply—her gaze locking onto me.
My heart stopped.
"Giuliana." Her voice was cold, warning. "Go back to your room. Now."
But I didn’t move.
The man beside her frowned. "Who is—"
"Leave!" she hissed at him, panic flashing in her eyes.
I didn’t understand what was happening, but something in her face made my chest tighten.
And then—
Then I collided with something solid, the earlier memory vanishing from my head.
No, it wasn't something. It was someone.
A hand shot out, gripping my arm to steady me before shoving me back just as fast.
"It wouldn’t kill you to watch where you’re going, principessa," a low voice muttered.
The accent was not unfamiliar—Italian, but rougher, colder.
I steadied myself, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
He stood there, tall and composed, like he owned the space he occupied. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his icy blue eyes cutting through me like a blade. I had been surrounded by dangerous men my entire life, but something about him felt different.
No. Worse.
His presence sent a slow shiver down my spine, an instinctual warning I refused to acknowledge.
"What the hell is your problem?" I snapped, adjusting the sleeve of my gown.
"You ran into me," he said simply.
I scoffed. "Maybe if you paid attention, jerk."
His lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Something dangerous lived there, something meant to unsettle.
"Be careful," he murmured. "Not everyone will care that you’re Daddy’s little princess."
I clenched my fists.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"Emiliano," he said. No last name. No explanation.
Something about him felt off. He didn’t look like my father’s usual business partners, nor one of his soldiers.
"Are you one of my father’s men, or just another stray dog?" I taunted, my voice dripping with condescension.
His expression didn’t change, but I saw the shift. The way his body stilled. The way his fingers flexed, as if restraining the urge to react.
The surrounding air thickened, charged with something both volatile and magnetic.
Most men flinched when I spoke with such defiance. But Emiliano?
He simply stared. A silent battle waged between us—one I wasn’t sure I wanted to win.
Then, finally, his lips parted.
"Dog, it is," I chuckled.
I turned to leave, expecting him to let me go.
Instead, his hand shot out, fingers curling around my wrist. Not tight, not painful. But firm. Commanding.
I inhaled sharply, my pulse betraying me.
"You should be more careful with your words, Giuliana," he murmured, using my name like it was a secret only he was meant to know.
I forced myself to meet his gaze. "And you should learn when t
o let go."
For a second, neither of us moved. The tension coiled, a silent game of power and defiance.
Then he released me, taking a single step back.
A knowing smile ghosted his lips. "Enjoy your evening, principessa."
And just like that, he was gone.
Leaving me standing there, my skin still burning where he touched me.
I didn’t know then that I had just met the man who would ruin me.
- Writer
