Heir to vengeance

ARIA Thunder sounded like angry drums that night. I remember because I counted the seconds between the flash and the boom, the way my father once taught me. “One... two... three...” I whispered under my blanket. The storm was close. The rain hit the windows so hard it sounded like someone was knocking to come in. My room smelled of lavender and dust, and the tiny nightlight in the corner glowed weakly, painting the walls a soft yellow. I was five, small enough to still hug a stuffed bear, but old enough to feel when something was wrong. That night, the house didn’t sound right. Usually, I’d hear my mother’s laughter echoing from the hall, or my father’s deep voice on the phone. But everything was quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. Then I heard it — footsteps. Heavy ones. More than one pair. I froze. “Papa?” I called, but my voice came out as a whisper. No answer. Just the sound of doors slamming somewhere downstairs and a crash, like a vase breaking. I sat up quickly, clutching my bear to my chest. My heart was pounding so loud it hurt. I slid off the bed and ran to the door. When I opened it, the hallway was dark except for flashes of lightning through the big glass windows. I could smell something strange — gunpowder, maybe?. Then I saw my mother running. Her silk nightgown was torn, her hair falling loose over her face. “Aria! Baby, where are you?” “Mommy!” I cried, and before she reached me, another man appeared at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t dressed like the guards. His suit was dark, wet from the rain. His face was shadowed under the brim of his hat, but I saw the gun in his hand. My mother’s scream ripped through the corridor. “No! Please—don’t touch her!” She pushed me behind her, trembling. “Run, Aria. Go to your room. Hide.” “I don’t want to—” “Go!” So I ran. Back to my room, back to my bed, back under the blanket like hiding could make the world go away. But the world didn’t go away. The shouting got louder. A gunshot cracked. My mother screamed again. I couldn’t stop shaking. My bear fell from my hands. Then someone opened my door. I thought it was my father. I wanted it to be him so badly. But the man who stepped in wasn’t Papa. He was tall. His coat was dripping wet. He looked at me for a long time, like he didn’t expect me to be so small, or so scared. His eyes were dark, but not cruel. Just... tired. I tried to speak, but my voice broke. “Are you here to take me?” His hand tightened around the gun. “Yes.” Something inside me broke. I started to cry — not loud, just small sobs that made my chest hurt. “Please don’t hurt my mommy. I’ll come with you. Please, just don’t hurt her.” The man stared at me, his face twitching like he was fighting something inside himself. Then he lowered the gun. “What’s your name?” he asked softly. “Aria.” His lips parted. For a second, he didn’t breathe. Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Aria... Moretti?” I nodded. He looked away, like saying my name had burned his tongue. “You look just like her,” he murmured. “Like who?” I asked, still sniffling. He didn’t answer. Instead, he crouched in front of me, taking off his gloves. His hands were rough, scarred. He brushed a tear from my cheek — gently, like it hurt him to touch me. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said finally. “Not tonight.” Then another man shouted from downstairs. “Dante! Is it done?!” The man’s jaw clenched. He looked at me again, eyes flicking to the door, then to the window. I didn’t understand it then, but I know now — that was the moment he made his choice. He pulled something from his pocket. A lighter. He looked at me and whispered, “Close your eyes.” I obeyed. The smell of gasoline filled the air. A few seconds later, I heard the crackle of fire, then the sound of glass shattering as flames licked the curtains. He picked me up, wrapping me in his coat, and ran. “Hold on,” he whispered as we burst through the back door. The rain hit my face, mixing with tears and smoke. The wind screamed. Behind us, the mansion roared with fire. “Papa!” I screamed into the storm. “Mama!” But the man didn’t stop. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “Don’t look back,” he said. We ran until the fire became nothing but a red glow behind us. The rain washed the ash from my face, but not the memory. He stopped beside an old black car hidden under trees. My teeth chattered so hard I could barely talk. “Where are we going?” He opened the car door and put me inside. His voice was low, quiet, but steady. “Far away.” I looked at him — this stranger who stole me, yet somehow saved me too. “Who are you?” He paused. Then, softly, he said, “My name is Dante.” He lit another cigarette, the fire from the match reflecting in his eyes. Then he looked at me — not like a killer, but like someone staring at a ghost. “From tonight,” he whispered, “your name is Aria Delane. You were never a Moretti.” He closed the door, the storm swallowing his words. And just before my eyes grew heavy, I saw movement behind the trees — another man watching us. His face burned into my memory. The way his lips curved into a cruel smile as the flames lit his skin. --- My eyes snap open, and for a second, I swear I can still hear the thunder. My chest feels tight, my skin damp with sweat. I reach for the light switch, but my hand is trembling. It takes me a moment to remember where I am — the small apartment, the pale curtains, the books scattered across the floor. No mansion. No fire. Just the ghost of it, trapped behind my eyelids. I sit up slowly, my breath uneven. I rub my eyes, whispering to myself, “It was just a dream.” Except it never really is. It’s the same dream that’s followed me since I was five. The same night replaying itself, again and again — my mother’s scream, the man’s shadow, the fire swallowing everything. Dante says it’s because I was too young to understand what happened. That the mind keeps replaying what it can’t forget. But deep down, I think it’s more than that. It’s a warning.