I Left. It Didn't.
The armored SUV clears the iron gates of the estate.
Six years in Munich taught me how to survive a place like this one...Germany was clean and predictable, nothing like coming home.
My boots hit the stone as I step out of the back.
"Signorina Leonora," the head guard says, and I walk past him without a word.
Ermanno stands at the top of the grand staircase, holding a crystal glass of whiskey as always.
"You look well," my father says, taking a slow sip.
"Cut the act, Ermanno." My voice bounces off the stone before he can finish swallowing. "You didn’t call me back to catch up on family."
He tightens his grip on the glass and walks down the steps, his shoes making no sound against the stone as he closes the distance between us.
"Your time abroad made you sharp," he says, stopping two feet away. "You’ll need that edge for what comes next."
"My edge is fine."
"We’ll see how fine it is once you step into the office."
"I’m not here for an internship."
He takes another slow sip of the whiskey before he answers. "You’re here because I say you’re here."
"I have my own terms."
His eyes narrow by a fraction. "You have what I give you."
Six years in Munich taught me how to master corporate law, and my father watches me now with a quiet pride that never once made it into a letter or a phone call while I was gone.
"You earned top marks," he says.
I look away from his face. "I did what I set out to do."
"You’re home."
"I’m going to my room, if it’s still there." A small smile pulls at my mouth as I say it.
He only nods.
Silver threads cut through his dark hair, and deep lines carve around his mouth, betraying years of coldness that never once softened, even as his shoulders still fill the suit with the same rigid authority they always have.
He is my father. Ermanno Strozzi... a man who built an empire on paper, bank accounts, and clean signatures, while everyone else did the dirty work underneath him.
A bitter taste rises in my throat as I think it.
He raised me alone after my mother died when I was fifteen, and six years in Munich were supposed to be my escape from his golden cage, except degrees and Germany don’t change who he is underneath the whiskey and the good posture.
A single tear breaks free, slipping down my cheek the moment I cross the floor of my old bedroom and lock the door behind me, the silence of the room dragging me straight back to that night.
I’d been fast asleep when my father walked in, his voice devoid of emotion as he told me my mother had lost her life in a car accident. Just when my sisters and I needed her the most, Ermanno stood there... cold, ruthless, untouched by grief, like it was just another piece of information to deliver before bed.
My footsteps drag across the floor as I walk to the desk, where her photograph still sits exactly where I left it.
Giulietta Strozzi.
A true Italian lady with dark, melancholic eyes, a grace that defied the harshness of our world, and a gentle smile frozen in silver.
I look down at her as tears fill my eyes, slowly blurring her face until I can barely make out the shape of her anymore.
"Sto bene, mamma..."
I whisper it, tears sliding down my face as I say it again.
"I’m fine, Mama," I repeat it over and over into the room, fighting to catch my breath as the tight knot in my throat crushes all the strength I spent years building in the cold.
I fall onto my bed, looking up at the ceiling, my chest heaving.
Can I survive the old life here, my father's rules, and everything beneath them?
A sharp knock breaks the silence of the room.
The maid.
"Signorina Leonora," a muffled voice calls through the door. "Dinner is at seven on the terrace. Your father will be waiting for you."
I wipe the remaining moisture from my face, take a deep breath, and walk out of my room to face them.
The grand terrace overlooking Lake Como looks stunning under the glow of overhead lights, though the atmosphere around the dining table is cold... everyone is finally gathered, while tension hangs just beneath the surface.
Sitting near the end is the oldest sister, Ottavia, alongside her husband Matteo, who also happens to be our father’s man.
Matteo barely waits for me to sit down before he starts in, bringing up my background before I’ve even reached for my napkin.
"So, Germany taught you all the fancy law theories," Matteo says, flashing a tight smile. "Let’s see how long those corporate compliance rules hold up once you actually have to face how things work out in the field."
Ottavia doesn’t even bother hiding her expression, her eyes sharp with pure bitterness and jealousy, her posture stiff as she holds her wine glass like a weapon she’s been waiting all night to use.
She’s always believed the entire Strozzi empire was hers by birthright, and my return is just a threat to that.
I don’t flinch or look away. I meet Matteo’s stare, let a quiet stillness settle over the table, and reply in an effortless tone that cuts him off before he can enjoy his own joke.
"The field requires an understanding of the law, Matteo, not just loud guesswork... and unlike some, I prefer my execution precise."
Before Matteo can even think of a comeback, the silence is shattered by the sound of a silver spoon tapping lazily against a crystal glass.
Isotta lounges back in her chair, in total disregard for our father’s strict rules, letting out a loud, bored sigh before anyone can stop her. At twenty-two, she’s the family’s walking disaster. Wild, reckless, and allergic to anything resembling business.
"Oh, please, can we skip the boring office talk before I actually die of boredom?" Isotta cuts in, flashing a mocking grin as she twirls her wine glass. "Some of us actually have a life outside of these walls. If you guys spent half as much time having fun as I did dodging paparazzi after last night’s club crawl in Milan, this dinner wouldn’t feel like a funeral."
Ottavia shoots her a furious glare, ready to snap, but Isotta just rolls her eyes, because she doesn’t care about the empire, the power struggles, or any of it. In this house, she only ever answers to one person, our father, the only one whose shadow is enough to keep her chaotic impulses on a slightly short leash.
Further down the table, Ginevra is doing what she always does, trying to be completely invisible.
She’s eighteen now, but she still shrinks away from the family crossfire, quietly pushing the food around her plate, her eyes fixed on the lake beyond the terrace. She’s always been the quiet artist of the family, safely locked away in her own head and her sketchbooks, and most people here write her off as harmless and detached, like a ghost sitting at the edge of the table.
But watching her from across the table, I notice she tracks every conversation without saying a word. She sees absolutely everything, and Ginevra has a mind full of secrets she’s keeping hidden from all of us.
Right beside Ginevra sits Fiamma, the youngest of us all at fourteen, though she acts like she owns the entire estate. She’s our father’s absolute favorite, spoiled, with a sharp tongue when she wants to be, and everyone else at the table still treats her like a helpless kid who doesn’t understand the game being played.
They’re making a mistake. Fiamma doesn’t miss a single thing.
Her sharp eyes dart back and forth between Matteo, Isotta’s bored smirk, and Ottavia’s anger, drinking in every drop of tension at the table. She already knows how to weaponize what she sees, and beneath that innocent little sister act, she’s waiting for the right moment to use it.
The glass doors open in the middle of dinner.
Stefano Barone steps onto the terrace, and all noise at the table stops at once.
"Why does Matteo look so fucking small suddenly?" I say under my breath, a grin pulling at my mouth.
The forty-year-old controls every port and shipping lane in this territory through Barone Maritime Group, and his presence alone forces a silence across the table as Ermanno pushes himself up from his chair.
"Stefano," Father says, pulling his partner into an embrace. "You missed the first two courses."
The visitor laughs with the casual ease of an old family friend.
"The docks in Genoa took longer than expected, Ermanno," Stefano says, stepping back to pat Father’s shoulder. "Good evening, everyone."
Ottavia straightens her spine while Matteo offers a stiff nod.
Father gestures to the empty seat beside mine, and Stefano pulls out the chair and settles next to me. His jacket grazes my arm in passing. My skin prickles at the brief touch while he reaches for his glass.
"Leonora," he says softly, his eyes locking onto my face. "Welcome back from Germany."
I turn my head toward him, my voice cutting through the silence of the terrace.
"Guten Abend, Onkel Stefano."
The German words hang in the air, and I can’t tell why the old childhood title tastes like poison on my tongue the second it leaves my mouth.
His bright blue stare locks onto mine and refuses to let go, one second passing, then another, nothing innocent in the way those pale eyes darken.
A silent warning passes between us as a slow smile cuts across his mouth.
"Good evening, little Leonora."
The pale blue of his eyes hardens at the edges.
Dangerous.
