All Chapters of The Don's Daughter: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

STEFANO’S POVSicily never cared who ruled it.The stone stayed warm beneath the sun. The sea kept breathing in and out like a patient animal. Men still bowed their heads when I passed. Life went on, obedient and indifferent, and that was how I knew I had done everything right.My father was dead.Christian Guerra, The Great Don of the Cosa Nostra, King in all but name, was buried with the reverence owed to a man whose shadow had stretched across generations. The world mourned him properly. Publicly and safely.No one asked the questions that mattered.They said it had been an accident.A fall during the hunt. A misstep. Age finally catching up to him.That was the first step.I still remembered that day vividly, the smell of damp earth, the sharp snap of branches underfoot, the way Father had moved with confidence born from decades in those mountains. He had trusted them. Trusted me.All I needed was a moment.A calculated disruption. A loose stone. A shove that looked like chaos rath

VITTORIA’S POVThree days before the wedding, I was sitting in the library.Not hiding. Not lurking. Sitting, comfortably, curled into one of the leather lounge chairs with a book resting open in my hands.The Art of War.Sun Tzu had lived and died long before men like Nikolai De Luca ever learned to call themselves kings, but strategy never aged. Power never changed. Only the pieces on the board did.I liked ancient warfare texts. They were honest. They didn’t pretend victory came from morality or mercy. They understood what most people refused to admit, wars were won before the first blow was struck.As my eyes skimmed the page, my thoughts drifted back to the dark room.The silence there had been complete. No windows. No artificial light. The cell buried beneath the secured building’s basement, concrete swallowing sound, air thick and stale. Most people broke because they were forced to sit alone with themselves.I didn’t.The darkness gave me something I had very really had space,

VITTORIA'S POVPain woke me.Not the kind that dragged a sound out of my throat or forced my body to curl inward. The kind that arrived cleanly, deliberately, settling deep into bone. My shoulder burned; sharp, concentrated, precise. The adrenaline from yesterday was gone, leaving nothing to soften the truth of the injury.My eyes snapped open.I didn’t move.Not my breathing. Not my pulse. Not a single muscle betrayed me. The pain existed, intense and undeniable, but it stayed contained; locked behind discipline honed over years. Pain was information. Nothing more.Then I felt him.Warm fingers brushed my shoulder, slow and careful, tracing the shape of the bruise as if memorising it. His touch followed the handprint left behind, lingering where the pain peaked. Gentle. Almost reverent.I let him touch me.I rolled over.Nikolai was awake, lying beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. His icy blue eyes were already on my face, watching, assessing. He’d been awake fo

VITTORIA’S POVI spoke to the event coordinator last night.And again this morning.The first conversation was polite; strained, but polite. She spoke in rehearsed phrases about tradition, optics, family expectations. About how weddings like this followed rules. About symbolism. About the weight of legacy. She smiled the entire time, as if she believed smiles could soften facts.The second conversation was shorter.She tried again; gentler this time to suggest changes. White accents. Floral arrangements that “honored heritage.” A seating plan that placed me where a bride was expected to sit.I listened.Then I reminded her who I was.I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t threaten her. I simply reminded her who I am. I explained calmly that this wedding would reflect my decisions and my choices, as it is my wedding. I also reminded her that her job was to execute what I wanted, not to try an reinterpret them.She didn’t argue after that.Nikolai told me over breakfast that his family would

VITTORIA'S POVI woke to light.Not the harsh, blinding kind... no, this was softer.Pale morning light filtering through tall curtains, spilling across the floor in long, golden stripes. For half a second, I didn’t move. I didn’t think. I simply existed.Then my head reminded me I was, in fact, alive.Pain bloomed behind my eyes, sharp and insistent, like someone had lodged a blade straight through my skull and twisted it for good measure. My mouth was dry. My stomach rolled unpleasantly. Every sound felt too loud, every sensation too bright.Ah.So this was a hangover.I groaned quietly and rolled onto my side, only to freeze when I sensed movement near the bed.I scanned the room instinctively, Nikolai wasn't here. He must have gotten up earlier and left. I then noticed a maid stood there, she was very quiet.She was young, neat, and dressed in black and white, her posture was impeccable. In her hands was a silver tray. She looked at me with the careful expression of someone who