CHAPTER 11

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

The silence fell heavily between us.

I stood up quickly; fear ran through every vein in my body.

“I didn’t bring you here to frighten you,” Dom Vittorio said at last. “Fear is unstable. Frightened people make mistakes.”

He took a step toward me.

Instinctively, I stepped back.

The movement was small. Almost imperceptible. But he noticed.

He always noticed.

“I brought you here to observe you.”

My stomach tightened.

“And what did you see?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me the way someone examines something they haven’t yet decided is useful or disposable.

“Someone who still believes she can choose,” he replied. “That passes.”

He turned his back on me without waiting for a reaction.

“Follow me.”

Without thinking twice, I did.

We walked through the house slowly.

Dom Vittorio moved ahead with controlled steps, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were conducting an inspection—not of the house, but of me. He explained nothing. Pointed at nothing. He moved forward, certain I would follow.

And I did.

The floor changed beneath my feet. The cold marble from before gave way to dark, heavy wood that creaked almost imperceptibly. The walls were too high, decorated with framed weapons, old paintings, and black-and-white photographs.

Men.

Only men.

Stern faces. Empty stares. Rigid postures. Not a single genuine smile.

I didn't know them.

But I recognized them.

The air there seemed different. More dense. As if that part of the house breathed at a slower, more controlled pace.

We passed through a large room where dark leather sofas were arranged with perfect precision. Nothing there seemed intended for rest. It was a place for decisions. For silent sentences. Meetings took place in that room.

Then we entered a narrow corridor, lit only by low lamps.

Dom Vittorio stopped in front of a pair of double doors, older than the others. The wood was hand-carved, worn by time. He pushed one of the doors open effortlessly.

The room inside felt different.

Quieter.

More closed off.

The walls were covered with almost black wood. A thick carpet completely muffled our footsteps. There was some furniture: a small side table, two armchairs, and a bookcase full of old books.

And photographs.

Lots of them.

But my eyes didn't scan them all.

They stopped.

At the other end.

At a single spot on the wall.

The photo wasn't the largest. Nor was it the most ornate. The frame was simple, elegant, and too discreet for a place like that—as if it didn't need to compete with what it contained.

A photograph of a man.

Young.

My body reacted before I understood why.

A tightness in my chest.

A sudden heat rose in my stomach.

My breathing became short, faltering, as if I had forgotten how to inhale.

He wasn't smiling.

His gaze was steady. Direct. Hard. But there was something there that wasn't coldness. It was presence. A kind of silent intensity that didn't need to impose itself.

I approached without realizing it.

Each step seemed involuntary.

His face was striking in an almost unsettling way. It wasn't delicate. It was marked. Strong. The kind of beauty that doesn't ask for approval. The kind that observes before acting.

His eyes...

There was something in them.

Something that made me feel seen, even though I knew that was impossible.

My heart began to race.

Ridiculous, I know.

It was just a photograph.

And yet, a shiver ran down my spine.

“Don’t touch,” Dom Vittorio’s voice came quietly from behind me.

I froze.

I lowered my hand, only then realizing it had been raised.

“Some things,” he continued, “don’t like being touched.”

I swallowed hard.

“Who is he?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The silence stretched.

Dom Vittorio stepped closer and stopped beside me, also facing the portrait. His expression was different now. The coldness was gone.

There was pride.

“My son,” he said.

My body stiffened.

“Alessandro,” he added.

The name echoed inside me in a strange, almost physical way.

Dom Vittorio kept his eyes on the image.

"He doesn't like photographs," he said. "He never liked being watched."

He paused.

"He prefers to watch."

My stomach tightened.

"This photo was taken without his knowledge," he continued. "Even so... it looks like he's watching."

That was exactly it.

The more I looked, the more it seemed that I wasn't the one studying the image.

It was the other way around.

"Alessandro wasn't raised to please," Dom Vittorio said. "He was molded."

He took a step forward.

"Cold. Calculating. Incapable of acting on impulse."

My chest tightened.

"Emotion creates weaknesses," he continued. "Weaknesses create opportunities... for others."

The silence grew heavy again.

"He learns quickly," he said. "He learns by watching. He learns by waiting."

I looked at the portrait again.

He didn't look like a threatening man.

He looked like a man who knew.

“My son doesn’t need to raise his voice,” Dom Vittorio continued. “He doesn’t need to prove anything.”

He paused briefly.

“Truly dangerous men don’t need to convince anyone.”

A chill spread through my arms.

“Some call him cruel,” he said. “Others call him ruthless.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“I call him necessary.”

My stomach twisted.

“Alessandro is not an ordinary man,” he concluded. “He is a construction.”

He stepped back.

“The devil himself, if that helps you understand.”

I stood there in front of the portrait, unable to look away.

“That,” Dom Vittorio said with contained pride, “is my son.”

Silence.

“My pride.”

Another pause.

“My legacy.”