Don Ricci

The moment my heels touched Italian soil, something inside me stirred.

Seven years. Seven damn years away, and yet, nothing had really changed. The air still carried that mix of warm pavement, a hint of espresso and bullshit that only Italy could perfect. I took a slow breath, let it fill my lungs, and smiled. Not because I was happy but because I was home. In the most twisted, bloody, Ricci kind of way.

Outside the airport, a fleet of black cars waited. Sleek, bulletproof, arrogant. All Father’s, no doubt. I didn’t need a sign....his scent lingered on the leather.

As I walked toward them, I caught movement behind me. Three men, dark suits, darker stares. I raised a brow; the Don’s daughter isn’t safe anymore. Did Father send them to protect me or make sure I don’t run away?

I slid into the car beside Elliot. He was quiet, like always, and I appreciated it. I leaned back, eyes closed, letting the silence settle.

The drive to the hospital was smooth.

We arrived fast. Too fast.

Inside the hospital, everything reeked of antiseptic and secrets. I walked in with Elliot and old man Aucci by my side. I caught a glimpse of the guards posted at every exit and entrance. My jaw clenched.

All these armed men, and still, someone managed to lay hands on Don Ricci? Pathetic.

The double doors to his room opened, and I stepped in alone. The man who held the door for me respectfully bowed and left, shutting it behind me.

And there he was.

My father.

Bandaged like a mummy, pale, broken—but still alive. Still dangerous. My heart slammed hard against my chest, but I kept my face unreadable as my eyes took all of him.

His eyes were closed, but the second I reached his side, they opened.

“Ah… Benvenuta a casa,” he said with that familiar gravel in his voice.

My breath hitched. I tried—truly tried—not to cry, but the tears betrayed me. I rushed into his arms the moment he stretched them toward me.

“Shhh, bambina,” he whispered, his voice rasping in my ear. “No more tears. Tears are for the weak.”

I pulled back, sniffed, wiped my face like the stubborn daughter I was. “You look like shit.”

He laughed. “And you don’t look bad yourself… for a disgrace.”

I smirked.

His eyes scanned me slowly, taking in every inch. “I’ve heard stories. A men’s club? Is that what my daughter built?”

I folded my arms and raised my chin. “What did you expect from a Don’s daughter? You tossed me out like garbage. I didn’t exactly plan to join a convent.”

“Tsk. A Ricci never eats dirt,” he muttered. “And don’t twist it. I didn’t chase you out of Italy. I threw you out of my house for screwing my men.”

“It was just one,” I shot back, unapologetic.

“At sixteen,” he growled.

“I was legal.”

He blinked, then chuckled. “Still a pain in my ass.”

“Genetics.”

There was a pause. Then, he coughed lightly and said, “I’m proud of you.”

My arms dropped.

“What?”

“I’m proud of what you’ve become, Madam,” he said softly.

I stood still for a second, eyes locked on his. Then the tears dropped again, before I leaned in and hugged him, tighter this time.

In that moment, I didn’t care about what I looked like. Didn’t care about the men I’d killed, the drinks I’d poured, or the sins I’d swallowed just to survive.

I was his daughter. Always have been.

And then I whispered, “Tell me, Father. Who did this to you?”

His hand gripped mine, weak but firm as I pulled away from the hug.

“I’ll pluck his fucking eyes out,” I continued. “And paint this city in his blood. I swear it on your name.”

“Now that’s my daughter speaking,” he croaked with a rough smile.

I reached for the glass on the bedside table and helped him take a slow sip.

“I’ll tell you who it was,” he said once he caught his breath. “But only if you promise me one thing.”

“Anything, Papa. Name it.”

He looked at me, no softness in his stare now.

“I want you to take my place. I’m naming you my heir.”

I blinked, stunned. “What? Father—how? You already have a son.”

His face twisted with disgust. He spat to the side like the name had poisoned his tongue. “Nestore is no figlio mio. Not anymore.”

I frowned. “What the hell are you saying? Nestore’s your blood. He’s always had more claim than I ever will.”

“I am the Don,” he snapped, voice cold and absolute. “The ring is mine. The heirloom is mine. And I decide who takes the throne.”

I folded my arms, unsure whether to be flattered or suspicious. “Fine. Let’s say I accept. How do you plan to put me there? You’re lying on a damn hospital bed, not a throne. You look weak.”

“Don’t you ever call me weak!” he barked, body jerking forward in fury before a violent cough ripped through him.

I held the cup out again, silent, watching his hands tremble as he sipped.

It took a full minute before he calmed. Then his voice returned, low and heavy.

“I have a plan. One that guarantees your reign. But I need your agreement. If you follow through, you’ll sit on the throne with the whole of Famiglia in your palm... per sempre.”

I scoffed. “Don’t make it sound like I’m desperate for power. Hand it to Nestore if it matters that much.”

His eyes snapped to mine, sharp as daggers. “Say that name again and I’ll throw you out myself.”

I said nothing. But my mind was racing. Nestore must’ve done something worse than I ever did.

Father leaned back against the pillow, voice cold. “If you marry Don Silvestro Marciano, everything falls into place. Power, loyalty, protection. No blood spilled.”

My blood ran cold. “What? Who the hell does arranged marriages these days?”

“Do it for me,” he said.

“You didn’t even marry Nonna’s choice back then. Why should I?”

“Because you’re a woman,” he growled. “You can’t hold this alone. Not in this world. Don Silvestro is the capo of ’Ndrangheta. He’ll give you the strength to rule without bleeding the streets.”

I blinked at him, insulted. “So I’m good enough to rule... but only with a man’s cock behind me?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m not marrying some old Calabria fossil just to play Queen Ricci,” I muttered, raking my fingers through my hair. “I don’t even like Italian men. They’re loud, hairy, and cheat like it's a sport.”

He didn’t say a word. So, I thought.

I turned and marched to the door, heart pounding, my mind on fire. Leave my club? Fine. Run the family? Maybe. But marry some stranger like a lamb to slaughter? Hell no.

I gripped the door handle when his voice hit me from behind, like someone shot me.

“It was Nestore.”

I froze.

Slowly, I turned. “What… What about Nestore?”

His eyes—those cold Ricci eyes that never cried—were wet. But the tears didn’t fall. Not yet. This set my heart racing.

“He did this to me,” Father said quietly. “For the throne.”

My breath caught. I stared at him, unblinking, as something sharp twisted in my gut.

“He poisoned me…” Father said, voice low but deadly. “Formed alliances with our enemies, planned every second of the attack while smiling at my face.”

“Mio proprio figlio.” His voice cracked. And that broke my heart

The words cut deeper than any blade or bullet I've ever gotten.

I stared at him, every muscle in my body tensing. He wasn’t just wounded...he’d been betrayed by his own blood.

“He left me to die,” Father rasped, “for a title he didn’t earn. You were supposed to be gone. He thought I’d never summon you. But I did. Because I need you, figlia mia. You cannot let him have it. Mai.”

My hand tightened around the door handle until the metal creaked.

My lips parted, but no words came out. I didn’t need to answer. The rage building in my chest said enough.

He didn’t need to convince me anymore.

This wasn’t about legacy.

This was war.

And now it was personal.

But then… the marriage.

No. I’ll take the throne. I’ll destroy Nestore without marrying anyone

(Welcome home)

(Baby girl)

(What?)

(my son)

(My own son)