PROLOUGE
.ILARIA MORETTI.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
Blood.
Blood.
BLOOD.
It’s everywhere—soaking the ground around me, painting the earth in deep crimson. I try to sit up, but every muscle screams in protest. There’s a sharp, burning pain in my shoulder—a knife wound. My skin is torn, slashed in too many places to count. And something heavy is pinning my legs down.
Grunting through the pain, I push myself upright. That’s when I see it. One of our soldiers—his lifeless body sprawled across my legs. I force him off with every last ounce of strength I have left, my stomach churning as his weight falls away.
My eyes scan the scene. Recognition hits like a bullet. I’m just outside the mansion grounds. And then—
It all comes crashing back.
The attack. Mom. What the fuck.
Panic surges through me. I scramble to my feet, ignoring the burning in my limbs. There’s no time for pain. I bolt toward the front door, my heart pounding, praying—begging—that everything’s okay. That I wasn’t out for too long. That they’re still alive. Please, please let them be alive.
As I reach the door, I see Nico. He’s covered in blood. For a moment, fear grips me. But then I hear his voice—steady, commanding, barking orders into his phone. It’s not his blood.
Thank God.
As soon as he sees me, Nico rushes over—fast, urgent, with a look I’ve never seen on him before.
“Cazzo, stai bene?”
(Fuck, are you okay?)
“Sembro a posto?”
(Do I look okay?)
I snap, staggering as the pain surges again.
He slides an arm around my shoulders, catching me just before I lose balance. I lean into him, breath ragged.
“Mom and Dad,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Are they okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
He looks away. Hesitates.
And Nico Moretti never hesitates—not unless it’s something big.
I stop walking. My legs shake, but I plant myself and turn to face him.
“I asked you something, Nicolas.”
He looks up, draws in a shaky breath.
“Dad’s fine. He’s not too hurt,” he says, voice low.
He stops. Doesn’t go on.
I wait. My patience running thin.
When he says nothing else, my body moves on its own—I start walking toward the house.
“Ria,” he calls after me, but I don’t stop.
The door creaks open, and I step into what used to be our home.
Now it’s just ruin.
Shattered glass. Broken furniture. Blood on the walls.
Bodies on the floor.
And in the center of it all—my father.
Kneeling. Straddling a body I know far too well.
He’s whispering to her, words I can’t hear, tears streaking down his face.My mother lies in his lap, pale, her chest barely rising. She’s responding to him in a voice so faint, so fragile.
And then I feel it.
All of it.
Every regret. Every missed call. Every excuse I made to stay away.
All crashing down on me at once.
Because I’m watching her slip away.
She turns her head, eyes finding me and Nico. She tries to speak—something soft, maybe our names—but before the words form...
The light in her eyes vanishes.
A scream tears through the room—raw, soul-ripping. I think it’s my father’s, but I can’t be sure. The world is spinning, closing in.
I don’t even feel myself fall.
Someone catches me—Nico, maybe. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.
What I do know is this:
They will pay for this. Every last one of them.
