The Don's Daughter

VITTORIA'S POV

“Release them!!”

My father’s voice cut through the mountain air sharp, impatient, absolute. Christian Guerra, The King of the Cosa Nostra, did not repeat himself.

Metal clinked and clanked as locks were undone. Chains fell. A smile crept across my face despite myself. I’d always thought this game indulgent, even wasteful but I did enjoy winning.

“I hope you’re ready to lose this time,” my brother said, his voice low and playful.

Stefano Guerra. My brother. Brilliant, reckless, and endlessly competitive but also jealous. As he spoke, his nostrils flared and his jaw tightened just a fraction.

He’s up to something.

“Go easy on him,” my father laughed.

I offered a small nod. I never bothered with banter. Words were inefficient and Noisey. Physical torture is less painful.

Where are those fucking prisoners?

Footsteps answered me. Running. Fast. Panicked.

Finally, it begins.

Ten men burst forward, disheveled and hollow-eyed, bodies marked by weeks of captivity. Men who had been to hell and back, because I had taken them there personally. They vanished into the forest within seconds, swallowed by shadow and pine.

My father and brother charged after them without hesitation.

I rolled my eyes.

Men always did that, run straight ahead, loud and predictable. No rhythm. No patience.

I tied my hair back into a pony tail and turned the opposite way, walking the forest line for several minutes before slipping between the trees. Then I sprinted, ducking branches, weaving through brush and stone. I grew up in these mountains. I knew every slope, every blind corner, and every lie the forest held.

They’d run toward the cliff. Panic always drove them there. Forcing them to turn back, they would have to funnel downhill.

Straight to me.

I stopped at the stream, angry water tearing down the mountain, crashing over rock and debris. There was only one crossing: a fallen tree slick with moss and rot. The water below would kill them faster than I ever could.

Perfect.

I took the moment to prepare.

Knife from my boot, left hand. Gun from its holster, safety flicked off before it settled back into place. Five throwing blades strapped to my thigh. Enough.

Shouting echoed through the trees. Heavy footfalls. Desperation.

I lowered my stance.

Knife ready. Fingers hovering over steel.

Let the hunt come to me.

The first man appeared.

I didn’t hesitate.

My arm moved on instinct, smooth and practiced. The throwing knife left my fingers and buried itself in the side of his throat with a wet, hollow sound. His hands flew to his neck as blood poured through his fingers. He stumbled once, twice, then collapsed into the undergrowth, choking on his last breath.

The second was faster. Smarter.

He rushed me head on, eyes wild, mouth open in a scream that never fully formed. I stepped into him and drove the hunting knife into his liver. The impact knocked the air from his lungs; he folded instantly, crumpling like dead weight. I dropped with him, my knee pinning his chest as I pulled a throwing knife free and slit his throat in one clean motion.

Efficient. Quiet.

Before his body had even finished twitching, I pivoted.

The third man had almost made it past me. Almost.

He was already on the fallen tree, boots slipping against damp bark, eyes widening when he realized I was there. I didn’t move closer. I didn’t need to. The same throwing dagger flashed through the air and struck him squarely in the chest. His balance faltered, arms windmilling as he fell backward into the stream below.

The water swallowed him whole.

Between the current and the rocks, he wouldn’t last long.

I almost felt disappointed. I really liked that dagger.

I knelt beside the second man and removed the hunting knife from his body, the blade sliding free with a soft, sickening sound. Blood coated my hand, warm and slick.

Then arms wrapped around my waist.

The fourth man.

I reacted instantly, snapping my head back hard. Bone met cartilage. I felt his nose break before I heard it. He cried out and loosened his grip just enough.

That was all I needed.

I spun, using the momentum to drive the knife straight into his left ear. His body went slack immediately, eyes glassy as he dropped at my feet.

Instant.

I pulled the blade free and wiped it clean on his shirt, watching the fabric darken as it absorbed his blood.

Four down.

I listened to the forest breathe around me, calm and patient, waiting for the rest to come.

Another man came barreling down the bank alongside the stream, boots pounding, breath ragged. He didn’t see me. He didn’t see the slick rocks or the way the ground betrayed panic.

His foot slipped.

He went down hard, arms flailing as the current seized him instantly. The water was merciless—dragging him under, smashing his body against stone. He resurfaced once, just long enough for terror to flash across his face, then the stream claimed him completely.

No scream. No struggle after that.

I watched the water churn for a moment longer, then turned away.

I’m counting that.

Five. Five Men, that not nearly enough. I need at least one more to ensure victory.  

Where are they all? Surely Dad and Stefano haven't gotten the rest of them. 

While I was trapped in my thoughts, wondering where the rest of the where, I heard a blood curdling scream. That sounded familiar...