Ch 0: Terms of Inheritance
By the time Nonno Enrique offered me the inheritance, the eldest Mussolini cousin, Gio, had died from a botched standoff in Europe half a year ago.
Pauli was second in line, and he declined.
The two cousins who came after Pauli didn’t fare much better: both had died months from each other just after they turned eighteen. They’d been dead at least a decade by then.
Twenty-six days after Nonno called him in, Pauli walked back into Nonno’s office, poured himself a whiskey, and said:
“I’d rather be buried than wear that crown.”
Two weeks later, he disappeared to Greece with a woman twice his age and a stolen yacht.
That had been nearly two months ago now.
Which was how I ended up standing outside the gates of the Mussolini property in California at twenty-seven years old on a random Monday, wondering what exactly my Nonno planned to ruin next.
He sent everyone home save for his driver the moment he realized I was here.
He sent the cook and maid home as well, so I served dinner for us out on the veranda that overlooked his vineyards. At least he’d ordered the cook to make dinner before sending her home.
On occasion, he was known to make it a punishment that his summoned visitor make dinner.
We were halfway through the pasta course when he wiped his mouth and lifted his wine glass.
“What?” I pressed when he didn't resume eating. Instead, he sighed deeply as he glanced out over the vineyards. He obsessed every year over those thin, frail little vines and yet, every year they weathered and thrived under his care. “Your plants will be fine this year, Nonno. Just like every year, I’ll get you the good fertilizer and-”
“You’re next in line.”
I laughed.
Nonno didn’t.
That was the first moment I realized this conversation was going to ruin my life.
The second came five minutes later, when he slid the folder across the table.
He could see the truth on my face:
I didn’t want this.
“You don’t just get to be the head of the family, Micah. You aren’t just responsible for the Mussolini family coffers. You get perks, too.”
“Perks?” I didn’t grab the folder until he offered it to me. “What is this?”
“Who,” he clarified with a smirk. He took a long sip of wine, avoiding my gaze as he spoke again. “She’s yours, if you inherit and choose her along with it.”
“Wait, wait, what do you mean ‘she’s yours’?”
“The Ricci family owes our family in blood, Micah,” he said, as if I hadn’t heard all about it since I was a boy. “They took one of our daughters, so it’s only fair we take one of theirs. Though, we don’t believe in spilling innocent blood, a marriage contract would work all the same.”
“Nonno, it’s not the 1700’s anymore, ok? Those type of things-”
“Marcia was going to marry your cousin.” That gave me pause.
I remembered the time when it was announced that Gio was going to marry Marcia Ricci. After all the distaste for the Ricci’s that had been instilled in us from the moment we could comprehend, just for him to go and get engaged to one of them?
I had distrusted him until his death. Now?
Now I understood.
“I see you understand.” He took the unopened folder from me and opened it before tossing it onto the table between us. “The last surviving Ricci granddaughter of your generation.”
I didn’t bother glancing down, “Nonno, I’m not marrying her. Or any woman right now for that matter. I don't have-”
“You gay? They got a lot of Ricci men, son, so one is bound to be gay. You know I do not care how you get your rocks off-”
“Nonno!” He chuckled teasingly at my sharp tone. “I’m not taking away some random woman’s life just because our great-great ancestors had a feud-”
“The Mussolini-Ricci feud cannot end until our families are united in marriage. You do not have to decide right now if you want her,” he glanced down pointedly at the table. I followed his gaze, having momentarily forgotten the folder he’d finally opened before me. “You can decide to marry her off to one of your cousins, or you can make a decree for one of the Mussolini women to marry a Ricci man. If you accept, it will be your decision.”
The moment I saw the first photograph, I knew I was fucked.
“She has no idea the clause exists,” Nonno warned. “None but you, Salvatore Ricci and I.”
And the cousins who had come before me in the precession. Gio, for certain.
Had Pauli known about this?
Had he turned her down?
I kept staring at the photograph.
Wild red curls.
Full lips.
Mean green eyes.
Beautiful.
Dangerous-looking.
The kind of woman who would sooner stab you than fuck you.
Exactly my type.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Sierra Campoz.”
I smiled before I could stop myself.
And just like that, the inheritance stopped feeling like a punishment.
She didn’t look anything like the women I’d grown up around.
She looked…
Tired.
Angry. Cornered.
Like someone pretending she’d escaped a cage while still wearing the collar.
At the time, I thought inheriting Sierra Campoz would be the most dangerous part of accepting the crown.
I had no idea she would become the only thing capable of destroying me.
I should’ve left the file at Nonno’s estate.
Instead, I took Sierra Campoz home with me.
The first thing I noticed was the shoes.
Not because I gave a shit about women’s fashion, but because the inconsistency bothered me.
Half the surveillance photographs showed her buying and wearing heels.
Expensive ones.
Red bottoms.
Designer straps from high end boutiques.
Sharp enough to classify as weapons.
Yet in almost every candid photograph in the last year, she wore flats.
That change happened around the same time the blond man started appearing in the file more consistently.
Nonno had had the private investigator send me the Dropbox link for the rest of the photos and information pertaining to a one Miss Sierra Campoz.
The blond man, he never touched her much in the photographs.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
The second thing that bothered me was that she smiled more naturally with strangers than she did with him.
The PI answered on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Micah.”
“Morning, sir. You’re up mighty early-”
“Everything you got on this blond man who’s always around Sierra, send it to me.”
“Only thing I can really find is that he’s a co-CEO at her job, they’ve gone on a few dinner dates over the last year, he’s bought her flowers twice, walks her to her door every time, and she never sleeps over or allows anyone to sleep over. But I have sent every photo I’ve ever taken of her with him to the Dropbox already.”
“Never slept over?”
“Not once in the last two years since I’ve watched her, anyway. Listen, this is the easiest money I’ve ever made. I’ve made it my mission to know everything about Sierra Campoz.”
“What’s she doing right now?” It was three in the morning in Cali, but it was already six in Tennessee.
“She usually leaves her apartment between six-thirty and seven most mornings, so she’ll be heading out to work soon. She stops for coffee at the same place every morning before work. Sometimes the blond, Dante, meets her there. Most days he doesn’t - but that’s because his rooster is full. And she usually meets her best friend instead.”
“You mean he’s-”
“Yeah, he’s cheating every day that ends in Y, you know? Real shitty dirtbag. He’s been cheating almost since the moment they started dating a year ago. That’s when she started buying heels and not-”
“Not wearing them anymore,” I finished for him.
“You went through an entire two years worth of photos in a couple hours?” His tone told me it was weird.
I didn’t bother to care.
The PI kept talking, but I barely heard him anymore.
My eyes stayed fixed on the photographs spread across the marble countertop.
Sierra laughing at something outside the frame.
Flats on her feet. Tension in her shoulders.
Beautiful and unhappy.
Sierra carrying grocery bags by herself.
Sierra leaving work after dark.
Sierra sitting alone in coffee shops staring out windows like she was somewhere else entirely.
And in every single photograph taken before the blond man appeared?
Heels.
Not just heels. Confidence.
Like she’d once taken up space without apologizing for it.
“What happened to her?” I asked quietly.
The PI went silent for a second.
“You asking professionally,” he said carefully, “or personally?”
I stared at the newest photograph.
Sierra exiting a coffee shop at sunrise with black flats, tired eyes, and a man beside her who looked like he’d never once noticed the woman walking next to him was slowly disappearing.
“Personally,” I answered.
The PI sighed.
“Honestly? I think she got tired of being too much for people.”
Something sharp twisted low in my chest.
Because whoever Sierra Campoz used to be-
I wanted to meet her.
And whoever made her smaller?
Deserved to lose her.
Because if Sierra Campoz belonged to anyone one day, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a man who made her disappear.
