Don Silvestro Marciano

One by one, they entered the chamber—men carved from iron and blood, legends of their territories, each drunk on their own power. For the first time, I stood in this room not in secret, not hidden in the shadows like I had when Father wasn’t watching.

No.

This time, they would see me.

This time, they'd remember my name.

Their footsteps echoed against the marble floor, and I stood at the center, dressed in black. The gown clung to me like a second skin—sleek, dangerous, unapologetic. My arms folded across my chest, my spine straight as a blade.

Then he walked in.

The last to enter.

Him.

Mr. Stephen.

The same brown eyes. Same unreadable stare. Same calm arrogance.

His gaze locked onto mine, unmoving. Unnerving. I forced myself to look away before my hatred painted itself across my face. What the fuck was he doing here? An outsider among La Cupola? He wasn’t famiglia.

My eyes flicked to Aucci. He stood beside me, hands behind his back, face blank.

I gave him a subtle signal. Who let this bastard in? But he didn’t flinch. Either he didn’t understand me... or he was playing dumb.

The chamber filled. Every high seat was taken. Twenty-two men—capos, bosses, allies, snakes in silk suits. All watching. All judging. All waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And then it began.

Murmurs. Snickers. Whispers rising like smoke.

“A girl? A fucking girl called this meeting?”

“Figlia di puttana, what is this circus?”

“She should be in a kitchen, not sitting where Dons bleed.”

“Where is Nestore Ricci? The true heir?”

My jaw clenched, but I didn’t speak. Not yet. Let them bark. Let them choke on their own venom.

I watched them with a cold stare, sharp enough to peel skin. Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just fire boiling beneath the surface of my skin.

Mr. Stephen still hadn’t looked away.

I could feel his stare burning through the tension. I didn’t know what he wanted. But I’d find out.

Then Aucci stepped forward, lifted a hand, and the room hushed.

“Donna Lavinia Ricci has the floor.”

I stepped forward.

“My name is Lillie Ricci. I am my father’s daughter,” I said, voice calm, clipped, and clear. “Don Ricci is dead. I stand in his place, as his heir—”

“Che stronzata è questa? What do you know of Cosa Nostra? You want to ruin all your father built?”

“Liar! He had a son! He had an heir already!”

“You want the crown, girl? Trick us? You want men to kneel to a skirt?”

A grizzled old capo slammed his fist on the table, “Mi comanderà una ragazza solo passando sul mio cadavere!”

I smiled slowly. “That can be arranged.”

The room turned colder. Mr. Galio. So it was him.

The same bastard who used to sip wine in our courtyard, laughing with Father like family. Now spitting venom like I was dirt under his shoe.

I glanced again at Mr. Stephen, waiting—daring him to speak against me. But he said nothing. Just sat there, silent, eyes locked on me with unnerving intensity.

Good.

I stepped forward and let my voice thunder.

“You want to talk about loyalty?” I hissed. “You want to talk about legacy?”

“I was sixteen when Don Ricci sent me to the States. Alone. No money. No guards. No family. He didn’t exile me. He forged me.”

“I worked the streets. I ran underground clubs. I made men kneel without firing a bullet. In ogni angolo degli Stati Uniti, si sente il mio nome. Lillie. Reigns.”

“Nessuno osa ignorarlo.”

“I didn’t come here to ask. I came here to claim.”

I circled the table slowly, voice low and cutting. “You call me small? I built an empire from nothing. Clubs, warehouses, high-end hotels—you name it, I claimed it. And I did it without your help, without your name, without your money. My father saw that. My father made sure I could handle this world… and everyone in it.”

One of the older bastards leaned forward, voice dripping with amusement. “And can you see blood and stand, little girl?”

I stopped. Turned to him slowly. My lips curled in a smirk, the kind that draws blood before it draws breath.

“Le donne vedono più sangue in un mese di quanto voi stronzi vedrete in tutta la vostra vita.”

A few men coughed into their hands. I raised my chin, eyes locked on the old man until he looked away.

“I am worthy,” I continued. “Don Ricci called me back from the States. He named me his heir. Not Nestore or any of you seated here”

Galio’s voice came next, full of venom. “You’re still a girl.”

I turned to him with the kind of calm that kills.

“And you're still alive. Miracolo.”

Then sharper, “Non scambiare mai il mio genere per debolezza, Galio. Potresti non vivere abbastanza a lungo da capirlo.”

His jaw locked, but he said nothing more.

“Shall we vote?” Aucci’s voice broke the tension.

“Those against Don Ricci’s daughter, Donna Lavinia?” he asked.

Hands rose like weapons. Nearly all of them. No hesitation. No shame.

“And those in favor?” he continued.

Silence.

Then one moved.

Mr. Stephen.

My rival from the States.

His hand rose, slow, deliberate. The room shifted. My heartbeat did too. Of all people…

We were enemies. Bitter ones.

A few others raised their hands after him, but I only saw his.

I stepped forward. “My father gave me the heirloom,” I said coolly, letting the weight of it hang over the room. “The throne is mine—whether or not your hands agree.”

“Then show it,” someone challenged. “Where is it? If Don Ricci gave it to you, where the fuck is it?”

My jaw locked. “Don Silvestro Marciano of ’Ndrangheta, Calabria, has it.”

I should’ve spoken to Silvestro. I should’ve played the bride. But I’m twenty-three. Marriage was never part of my plan—sticking with one man isn’t so fun for me.

But my hesitation dragged me here, and now I had to make it bleed.

Then I noticed all eyes turned to him.

Stephen.

He stood slowly, straightening his jacket. Black suit, brown eyes, messy hair like sin.

He cleared his throat and said with annoying ease, “È vero.”

I blinked, stunned. “Aspetta... What?” He speaks Italian? He is italian?! He is the Don Silvestro? Hell no

He walked toward me, smug bastard that he is, and pulled a box from his inner coat pocket. Opened it with a click.

Inside, a silver locket. My family’s crest engraved on its face like a promise of war.

My breath stopped. My heart didn’t.

“That’s it…” I whispered.

He turned to the table. “Don Ricci gave me the heirloom before his death. He entrusted me to guard it—for her”

Then he faced me. Close enough now for his scent to invade my lungs. His smile was slow. Arrogant. Almost... teasing.

“Ciao, mia amata Donne Lavinia.”

I stared at him. At the heirloom in his hand. At the laughter dying behind his twitching lips.

And all I could think was—

Fuck.

(A girl will command me only over my dead body!)

(In every corner of the United states, my name is heard, Lillie Regins. No one can ignore it.)

(Ladies see more blood in a month than you’ll ever see in your entire miserable existence.)

(Never mistake my gender for weakness. You might not live long enough to regret it.)

(It’s true)

(Hello, my beloved Donne Lavinia)