Ghost of Rossi

Dimitrio’s Pov

The taste of her defiance still lingered on my tongue.

I sat alone in my chambers, staring at the wall, replaying every moment of our encounter. The way her eyes had blazed with hatred. The way she had fought back, scratched me, spat in my face.

No one had ever done that to me.

Not since—

I stopped the thought before it could fully form. I didn't want to think about the past. Didn't want to remember the other red-haired girl who had looked at me with something other than fear.

Rossi.

Her face flashed in my mind, unbidden. That gentle smile. Those kind eyes. The way she had risked everything to bring me food in that dungeon, knowing she would be killed if she was caught.

And then Giacomo had—

I slammed my fist against the desk.

I wasn't going to think about it. I wasn't going to let the memories drag me down. That was the past. This was the present. And Serena Marino was not Rossi. She was just a slave. A tool. Something to be used and discarded.

But her defiance...

I had seen the way she looked at me when she spat in my face. Not just fear. Not just hatred. There was something else there. Something that made me want to break her, but also made me want to keep her.

I couldn't decide which impulse was stronger.

I forced her to her knees in my chamber, making her kneel before me like the slave she was. Her body trembled, but her eyes still held that fire. Those beautiful, defiant caramel eyes.

"Kneel," I told her, my voice flat.

She refused at first. Of course she did. It took me pushing her down myself, my hand on her shoulder, forcing her to obey.

"You're no different from the rest," I told her, crouching down so I could see her face. "You're just another whore I bought."

"I'm nobody's whore," she spat.

I chuckled despite myself. "We'll see about that."

But I didn't touch her. Couldn't. Not because I didn't want to—God knows I did. Her body was perfect, her skin like porcelain, her curves begging to be explored.

But I wanted her to come to me willingly.

I wanted to watch her break.

I wanted her to beg me.

Because that would be the real victory. Not forcing myself on her like some common street thug. Not taking what I could have taken the moment she arrived. No—I wanted her to choose me. To want me. And then, when she was fully under my spell, I would destroy her.

Just like Giacomo destroyed Rossi.

The thought made my blood run cold.

No. That was different. Serena was different. She was just a tool, a pawn in a game that I didn't fully understand yet.

"Take her to the slave quarters," I ordered Malak, turning away from her. The sight of her on her knees, still defiant, still fighting—it was too much. It reminded me too much of—

"I'd rather die than be his whore."

Her voice drifted back to me through the halls as they dragged her away. I heard her scream, heard her fight, heard the pleading in her voice that she tried so hard to hide.

And then silence.

I sank into my chair, my head falling into my hands.

What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I stop thinking about her? She was just a slave. Just another faceless body in a long line of bodies I had bought and sold. I had seen hundreds of girls pass through this estate. Thousands, maybe.

But none of them had looked at me the way she did.

None of them had fought back.

None of them had made me feel like this.

I poured myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing against the crystal. I drained it in one gulp, welcoming the burn that spread through my chest.

I needed to get a grip.

I needed to remember who I was.

I was Dimitrio De Luca, Don of the most powerful mafia family in Lazio. I had killed men with my bare hands. I had burned rival families to the ground. I had built an empire from the ashes of my father's death and Giacomo's betrayal.

I was not going to let some red-haired slave bring me to my knees.

And yet...

I thought about Rossi.

I thought about the way she had looked at me in that dungeon, her eyes filled with a kindness I didn't deserve. The way she had brought me food when no one else would. The way she had whispered my name like a prayer.

The way she had died because of me.

Because of Giacomo.

Because I hadn't been strong enough to save her.

I closed my eyes, trying to push the memories away. But they came anyway—Rossi's face, bloodied and broken. The light fading from her eyes. The way she had smiled at me in the end, telling me it wasn't my fault.

But it was my fault.

It had always been my fault.

And now, watching Serena fight, watching her refuse to break, it was like watching Rossi all over again. The same fire. The same refusal to give up.

The same doomed fate.

A knock on my door snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Enter," I called, my voice rough.

The door opened to reveal Giovanni Monera. My consigliere. My most trusted advisor.

And the father of the woman who wanted to be my wife.

"Don Dimitrio," Giovanni said, stepping inside. "I apologize for disturbing you at this hour."

"You're not disturbing me." I gestured for him to sit. "What is it?"

Giovanni settled into the chair across from me, his expression carefully neutral. "I've come to discuss the future of the family."

"The future?"

He nodded. "You're the Don now, Dimitrio. You've led us well. But to secure our legacy, to ensure that no one can ever threaten our position again—you need a strong alliance."

I already knew where this conversation was going.

"The Zakhars are defeated," I said flatly. "We have no enemies."

"We have always had enemies," Giovanni said. "And we always will. The only way to ensure our survival is to build a network of alliances. A family that will stand by us through thick and thin."

"I have alliances."

"Business alliances." He leaned forward. "I'm talking about something stronger. A marriage alliance."