The Don's Daughter

VITTORIA'S POV It's been a week since the last hunt. Obviously I won it, however I wished it was under better circumstances. My Father, Christian Guerra the King of the Cosa Nostra was badly injured during the hunt. According to Stefano he had a terrible fall and injured himself.I know my Father, I know that he knows those bushes just like me, if not better than me. There is no way he just 'had a fall', no way at all.I knew Stefano was behind this, he has always wanted the Cosa Nostra for himself. Yes, technically he is the first born and only son of Christian Guerra so he should have been the heir to the Cosa Nostra. However due to his 'personal preference' he is not interested in females, only males. He won't be able to produce an heir so our Father made the decision to give the Cosa Nostra to me, and he has groomed me my entire life to furfill that position.I know Stefan is jealous, and spiteful. I'm not surprised that he is responsible for our father's injury. He has always

NIKOLAI'S POVI knew Stefano Guerra was lying the moment he spoke his sister’s name.Men like him always lied when they were afraid; afraid of losing power, of being replaced, of being exposed. He stood in my study dressed in confidence, but his posture betrayed him. Shoulders too stiff. Jaw too tight. A man rehearsing a future that didn’t belong to him.Vittoria Guerra.The name lingered long after he left, settling into the room like smoke that refused to dissipate.I remained seated, fingers steepled beneath my chin, the cigar forgotten between them. Outside the tall windows, my estate stretched endlessly; stone, iron, and land soaked in generations of obedience. This was not a place for softness. It was a place where people learned who they were when comfort was removed.Stefano had tried to sell me innocence.Soft-spoken, disciplined, untouched.A virgin.I almost laughed.Not because it was impossible—but because men like Stefano only saw what reassured them. He needed Vittoria

VITTORIA'SS POV The room was silent in the way cages always were.Not peaceful, measured. Sound absorbed by stone and steel, footsteps muted somewhere beyond the walls. I sat on the narrow bed without touching the bars, my back straight, my breathing slow. Panic burned calories. Stillness conserved them.They would expect fear.They would not get it.I catalogued the room the way I always did when placed somewhere new. Dimensions first. Six steps from wall to wall. Ceiling high enough to discourage claustrophobia, low enough to remind you of limits. One door, steel, reinforced hinges on the outside. No handle on my side. Bars instead of glass on the window; thick, welded, set deep into the stone. No immediate weaknesses.Not yet.I lay back and closed my eyes not to rest, but to listen.Two guards outside the door. One pacing. One stationary. Footsteps every twenty-seven seconds, give or take. The hum of electricity threaded through the walls, steady, reliable. Somewhere deeper in th

NIKOLAI'S POV The study was quiet in the way power preferred it.A low fire burned in the hearth, more for atmosphere than warmth. Dark wood lined the walls, shelves filled with ledgers and files that documented the rise and fall of men who believed themselves untouchable. Outside, the estate functioned with practiced precision. Guards rotated. Engines idled and shut off. Men trained because discipline was the only thing that kept violence predictable.I sat behind my desk and waited.Stefano Guerra was late.I disliked lateness. It suggested arrogance or fear. Stefano possessed both.The door finally opened, and he stepped inside with the confidence of a man who had never suffered the consequences of his own decisions. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the security camera, the weapons mounted on the wall, the heavy windows. He wanted to be impressed.He should have wanted to survive.“Don De Luca,” he said smoothly. “Thank you for seeing me.”I did not stand. I did not offer him

VITTORIA’S POVThe next morning arrived quietly.Not gently but quietly. The estate didn’t wake so much as it shifted. Footsteps aligned into purpose. Doors closed with intention. Somewhere behind walls I couldn’t see, Nikolai De Luca was moving pieces into place.I woke already aware.Security hadn’t relaxed. It had intensified. Two guards outside my door, their pacing synchronized, their silence deliberate. Cameras hummed faintly overhead. He was watching closely now.Good.Midmorning, the lock turned.The man who stepped inside carried charm the way others carried weapons; openly, confidently, without apology. Dark hair, a smile designed to disarm, eyes far too sharp for a man who relied on charisma alone.“Vittoria Guerra,” he said lightly. “Dante Costello.”Second in command. I knew it instantly. Not because of rank, but because the guards behind him straightened just slightly. He didn’t ask permission to enter.“You’re quieter than expected,” he added, leaning against the wall a