Lavinia Ricci

Rain poured over the cemetery like the heavens themselves were trying to wash away the blood. But nothing could clean this family. Not water. Not time.

I stood still, unmoved, under the steady downpour. Dressed in black from bra top to ankle-length skirt, six inches high black heels, my skin glistened with cold droplets. My hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, every strand in place, unlike the storm behind my eyes.

Mr. Aucci held the umbrella above my head like a loyal shadow, silent as always. Behind me, the crowd wept and whispered, their grief either fake or forced.

I didn’t shed a tear.

I didn’t need to.

The wooden coffin lowered slowly into the earth. The final resting place of Don Ricci—my father, the devil in silk.

My fingers clenched behind my back, nails biting into flesh. My heart burned, not with sorrow, but with fury. I didn’t just lose a father. I inherited a war.

Voices drifted to my ears. Whispers behind black veils. Names. Suspicions. Loyalty in question. I heard everything.

They thought I was weak. Just a girl in heels.

They’d forgotten I was a Ricci.

Then came a sound that caused me to raise a brow—dramatic, desperate, and completely fake. A shriek, followed by a thud.

“Oh no, Don Ricci! Come back to me, amore mio!” she wailed.

I didn’t have to look. I knew the voice. Theatrics ran in her blood.

My mother.

Still playing widow when she’s been a snake all her life.

She collapsed onto the wet grass in her designer heels, black gown soaked, hands clutched to her heart like she had one.

People tried to calm her. Console her. But she refused to calm down. I knew she wasn’t there for him. She was there for attention.

I finally stepped forward, heels clicking with purpose. I crouched beside her, leaned in, and whispered like a viper to her ear.

“Oh, shush it, woman. We both know you didn’t love him.”

She stiffened, eyes snapping to mine in disbelief. I straightened slowly, staring down with a single raised brow.

She blinked and got up, “Mia dolce figlia...”

“Jole,” I cut in flatly.

Her lips parted again, but I lifted a hand. “Save it. I know you. I know how dramatic you are. You want to mourn? Do it quietly. Or I’ll have the men carry you out like last week’s trash.”

Her jaw clenched. Her face hardened. She got the message.

The artificial rain shut off a few minutes later. The burial was done. And so was my patience.

I took my seat at the head of the Ricci line, legs crossed, chin high. The power was beginning to settle where it belonged—on me.

One by one, they came.

Snakes in black suits. Old men with plastic smiles. Enemies disguised as mourners. Hands outstretched, words dripping like poison disguised as sympathy.

“Your father was a good man,” they said.

“He will be missed.”

“If there’s anything I can do…”

I forced the smile for as long as I could, until I couldn’t fake it anymore and that made them uncomfortable. They could feel it.

I watched them all carefully like a lion observing its prey. Many were Father’s killers here. I knew Nestore cannot do it without help from Father’s friends. They had eyes for the seat.

The seat wasn’t empty anymore.

“Mr. Aucci,” I murmured without looking.

“Yes, Donna Lavinia,” he replied, finally dropping the useless umbrella now that the sky had gone dry.

“I see Galio. Tell him I want a word, now”

He hesitated. “Donna Lavinia, perhaps it’s not safe to leave you alone—”

“I have Elliot with me. Go.”

He nodded stiffly and made his way to Mr. Galio. A few moments later Mr. Galio approached with Aucci behind.

“My darling daughter,” he said with a forced smile, “I hope you’re holding up. It’s never easy losing a—”

“Summon La Cupola. Emergency meeting. Tonight.”

He blinked. “Cosa? But—surely it’s too soon? Your father hasn’t even—”

I tilted my head slightly.

“Should I repeat myself?”

His mouth shut instantly. He dipped his head low. “I will do as you say.”

He turned to leave, but not without a final glance over his shoulder. I met his stare with ice.

He knew what I knew.

One more day with the throne empty, and this family would become a battleground. Blood would spill, alliances would shift, and I’d be dead before I could wear the crown.

No. Not me. Not today.

Let them whisper. Let them plan. Let them pray I fail cause if I don't... I’d bury them all in the same dirt as my father.

“Oh, Lavinia, mia cara,” a voice purred behind me.

I turned slowly, jaw already tight. One of Father’s old concubines stood there, all dolled up in black lace like she’d lost a lover. She was still alive? Huh. That was... unexpected.

I always assumed she’d end up in a ditch—either by Father’s hands or a stray bullet with her name on it. But there she was, standing like she belonged.

“Hi,” I muttered, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

But then I saw him—and the smile dropped.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“Excuse me,” I cut her off mid-babble and walked away, heels slicing the earth beneath me.

The crowd parted with instinctive awareness. In a corner, stood four men. Suits sharp, faces sharper. Advance, thick with legacy and power except for the fourth…

Young. Arrogant. Familiar.

His presence alone set my blood boiling.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snarled, storming into the space like a bomb set to detonate, letting the English flow fluently.

He met my glare without flinching. Brown eyes, cold and unreadable. Pretending like we’d never met.

Typical.

“I asked you a question,” I said again, venom in every word. “What the hell are you doing in Italy?”

He blinked slowly. “We’re at a funeral, aren’t we?”

I scoffed. “This is my father’s funeral. Trash doesn’t belong here. Especially not American trash!”

Still nothing from him. Not a twitch. Just the same maddening stillness.

I turned to walk away, paused, and looked over my shoulder. He was shaking his head—mocking me, like old times.

“Lucky for you, I’m mourning,” I muttered under my breath. “Or I’d turn that fine fucking face into art.”

Clicking my tongue, I strutted off toward Mr. Aucci, who was deep in discussion with a few of the older men. I leaned toward Elliot.

“We’re done here. Let’s go home.”

Still no sign of Nestore. Coward. Either hiding or plotting—I wasn’t sure which pissed me off more.

Aucci noticed us moving and fell into step beside me, always dutiful, always two steps behind.

“Donna Lavinia, forgive me, but are you certain about summoning La Cupola?” he asked, tone careful. “You don’t hold that authority—”

I shot him a glare so sharp he added quickly, “Yet.”

“And who does?” I asked, stopping beside the waiting SUV.

“The other families, Donna. They don’t answer to us. La Cupola must be convened by consensus—”

“They’re all here,” I cut him off. “They flew in for my father’s funeral. If they refuse to answer tonight, they should be sanctioned. No excuses.”

He hesitated, then murmured, “Donna Lavinia—”

“I need rest,” I interrupted. “Sono stanca.”

He bowed his head, took a step back, and said nothing more.

I slid into the backseat. The car pulled forward, flanked by two armored vehicles front and back. Inside, silence reigned. I leaned my head against the chair, letting exhaustion settle over me—until my phone rang.

Elliot reached into my bag and handed it over.

An unknown number.

I answered but didn’t say a word.

“Hello, little sister.”

My entire body went cold.

I sat up, spine stiff against the seat.

“Nestore?” I said, voice low.

“Hm. It’s me,” he replied casually, like he hadn’t orchestrated our father’s death.

Like he hadn’t burned the bloodline for a title.

My jaw clenched. Father’s last words echoed through my skull.

He was one of them.

The betrayers.

The enemy.

(My sweet daughter)

(my dear)

(I’m tired)