Ragazza di Fuoco
1339 Words
Zia
We arrived at the estate.
It was quiet—but my head wasn’t. I could still taste that disastrous drink. I’d barely managed to keep myself together after drinking it, but I wasn’t about to let that woman, Selene, win.
At the Camorra fundraiser, she’d told me how obvious it was that I didn’t belong in their world, that Lucien could never be with someone like me.
So, when she decided to humiliate me with the Saints Gauntlet—a game I’d only ever seen Don Giovanni use as a deciding factor—I knew I wasn’t going to let her have the last laugh.
I took the pain, the humiliation, the fire—and I walked out stronger.
Ana and Luca were waiting when we arrived. Ana looked sleepy-eyed. Luca, I’d learned, had been Lucien’s chef for seven years.
I dismissed Ana. I didn’t need help changing—I’m a grown woman. Besides, it was nearly 2 a.m. The poor girl needed rest.
Rafael came in with us. Lucien asked Luca for two glasses of whiskey.
“Um—I’m heading to bed. Goodnight, Rafael."
Rafael nodded and smiled. Lucien completely ignored me.
Of course, he did.
He hadn’t said a single word about what happened tonight. Not after I’d nearly gone crazy in the bathroom trying to rinse that revolting taste off my tongue, after crying in silence, shaken by what I’d just endured.
Yes, I knew what this marriage was built on. But couldn’t we at least have a conversation?
Apparently not.
I lay down in bed. I just needed sleep. I showered, changed, and closed my eyes, drifting—
Or so I thought.
Of course. I was starving. I hadn’t eaten at the fundraiser. Everything was seafood-heavy and I’m allergic to prawns. So, I skipped it all.
“I’ll just grab a quick midnight snack,” I muttered, hurrying up.
I opened my door carefully. Rafael must have gone home by now.
I crept into the kitchen and opened the fridge. All raw food.
“Damn you, Luca. Almenu lassami ‘na scatula di cereali… o ‘na picca di pullu arrustutu! At least leave me a box of cereal… or a bit of roasted chicken!” I grumbled in Italian.
Luckily, I found some bread and juice. I just prayed Lucien was asleep and couldn't hear me.
I was about to make an omelet when I heard voices. I froze.
Lucien’s and— Rafael’s.
Shit.
I thought Rafael had gone home. And Lucien was asleep.
I was about to retreat with my bread and juice when I heard them talking...
“He keeps slipping through our fingers like smoke,” Lucien said, anger roughening his tone.
I peeked around the corner. Rafael sat half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, nursing a crystal glass of whiskey.
“Anything?” he asked.
Rafael sighed. “Clean. Nothing. Matteo left no trace—sleek as always.”
Lucien scoffed. “Not sleek enough for me.” His phone buzzed. “f**k. Don Giovanni wants an update on his location in a few hours.”
“I’ll send the men out again.”
“If I wasn’t distracted, I’d get that information myself.”
Rafael sipped, then smirked. “But your little wife…?”
My ears perked up. I inched closer.
“She made it home in one piece. And the Gauntlet paid off—she’s all over the mouths of every drunk Saint in the city— they’re calling her ragazza di fuoco.”
“She’s lucky Selene didn’t eat her alive,” Lucien replied dryly.
“You almost looked impressed.”
“Almost.”
My grip tightened around the glass I held.
Would it kill him to give me a real compliment? Is it that hard to acknowledge me?
He wasn’t impressed, huh?
We’ll see.
I stepped into view—and instantly, two guns were aimed at me.
The glass dropped from my hands and shattered out of sheer fear.
“Jesus, don’t sneak up on us, Zia,” Rafael snapped.
“I—I’m sorry.” My heart was pounding so loud I was afraid they could hear it.
“What are you doing?” Lucien asked coldly.
“I was... I just—” I tried to speak through the shock. I’d almost been shot.
Lucien stared at me like he didn’t believe a word.
“What? Can’t speak? Were you spying on me?”
What?!
A mental bomb detonated.
“Why would you think that?” I half yelled.
“It’s past 3 a.m. And you’re here...”
“Because I was hungry!" I gestured to the spilled juice and bread as if it should be self-evident.
I looked at Rafael, who showed no emotion—indifference carved on his face as he calmly sipped his drink. Classic.
Lucien didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes. So I said the one thing that might shift the tide.
I took a deep breath. “I overheard your conversation—”
“So you were spying on us?” he snapped, sitting and clicking away on his phone.
“I wasn’t. I just heard when I came down. I could help with Matteo.”
Silence.
Lucien’s jaw clenched. His face was ice.
"Get. Out."
That tone—sharp and cold—made my stomach twist.
"What?" My voice cracked.
"Do I look like I’m playing games here?"
"What if it were Selene saying this to you right now? Would you think she’s playing games?"
Lucien laughed.
He actually laughed.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that sound, but it stung.
I’d cherished that laugh since I was seventeen, seven months after Don Giovanni took me in. I’d seen Lucien for the first time and thought he was breathtaking. Over time, my feelings only deepened—but I knew he’d never see me. I was just the driver’s daughter. Orphaned. Out of place.
Still, hearing him laugh now—at me—burned.
“She’s Selene,” he said, like it explained everything.
That hurt more than I expected.
I clenched my fists. I wasn’t some silly girl anymore. And I wasn’t stupid. I knew more than he thought.
So, I stepped forward, smiling slyly. His frown deepened.
Good.
“Matteo Bianchi. Smart. Charming. Always smells like cinnamon smoke and money. Looks people in the eye when he lies. Talks peace but watches for blood. He flirts to distract, lies to provoke, and vanishes before the tension snaps. Just like tonight—gone before you could strike, Lucien.”
Lucien showed nothing. Rafael’s brow arched.
"How do you know Matteo, Zia?" Rafael asked. "That’s a lot of detail."
I shrugged. Voice tight. “But sure, remind me again how I’m just the driver’s daughter. That I don’t belong in the room. Or anywhere else.”
I turned and stormed upstairs.
I was pulling a blanket from the wardrobe, my hands trembling—not from fear, but from rage—when both men entered.
I didn’t look at them.
Rafael’s tone was curious. “You’ve got something, Zia?”
I said nothing.
“You want to talk?” Lucien asked, quieter now.
I stilled but didn’t turn. “No. I want to trade.”
I turned to face them.
Rafael blinked. “Trade?”
“Information. Every word I know about Matteo Bianchi, his movements, which are already in motion—if Lucien agrees to let me go.”
Silence.
Lucien stepped forward. “Go where?”
I didn’t flinch.
“Where Matteo’s heading to. In a few days. He’s not just circling— he’s moving. And I know where."
He stared at me, searching for a bluff.
I held his gaze.
The air thickened.
Rafael looked at me like I’d just grown another head.
I didn’t care. I was done being underestimated.
Lucien remained unreadable—but I knew I had his attention now.
He finally spoke.
“Your information had better be right. You got yourself a deal, little lamb.”
- Writer
