Three years later, the Rosinni estate gleams like it was never touched by blood.
But I remember every drop.
Tonight, it breathes in candlelight, diamond chandeliers trembling above a crowd that once feared me… and now serves me. The masquerade is elegant–tails, gowns, masks of gold and black. No one dares wear white. That color belongs to ghosts, and I buried all of mine.
The twins flank me, one on each side–Lyle and Nash. They’re taller now. The wildness in their eyes is gone, replaced by calculation. Composure. They wear tailored suits with silver cufflinks, their posture royal. No more screaming. No more rebellion. They kiss my hand before we descend the marble staircase into the crowd.
Nash scans the room like a trained hawk. “Ma, should I keep an eye on the man by the fountain? He’s pretending not to look at you.”
I nod. “But let him pretend. That’s what sheep do before they kneel.”
Lyle leans closer, his voice a quiet breath. “Nonna would’ve loved this.”
And I pause.
Because maybe she would’ve.
My father died six months ago. Quiet, painless. A slow fade in the Rosinni hospital, surrounded by the last few people he trusted. Me. Matteo. Enzo. Lucien.
I didn’t cry.
I wore black lace and buried him under the northern olive tree–his favorite one. It stands by the chapel now, a crown of flowers at its base. His casket was gold–lined, closed forever. I gave no speeches. I didn’t need to.
My silence said everything.
He left the world knowing his bloodline had survived. Not just survived–won.
And that’s more than most men get.
Lucien’s hand rests at the small of my back as we move through the masquerade. He’s in midnight black, no mask. He never needed to hide. Not from me. Not from the boys. He’s alive. Whole. And finally… mine.
They whisper about us. Say we married in secret in a chapel on the cliffs above Verona. That Matteo was the witness. That Enzo cried.
I’ll never confirm it.
Why?
Because I don’t owe the world that truth. I just owe it to myself. And every night since then, when Lucien brushes his lips against my forehead and I hear the twins laughing from the east wing–l know. This is what survival tastes like. Not sugar. Not ash.
Steel.
After the last toast, after the music dulls, I stand on the balcony overlooking the gardens. The
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moon hangs low. My empire hums beneath my feet. And I’m alone for just a moment.
Lucien joins me.
“You haven’t danced tonight,” he says softly.
“I’ve danced enough for a lifetime,” I reply, resting my hands on the marble.
He slips something into my hand. A crown.
Small. Black steel. Custom–forged. Light enough to wear without feeling it—but sharp enough t cut if anyone touches.
He says, “Put it on.”
I don’t hesitate.
I turn, look back at the ballroom. The twins are dancing now, slow and composed, leading young girls with the same firm hands I taught them to use when loading a pistol. Matteo and Enzo siĮ whiskey in the corner. One nod from me, and the music changes.
Violin. Dark. Beautiful.
Lucien pulls me to the floor. No spotlight. Just shadows. Just us.
In the end, it wasn’t bullets that saved me. It wasn’t armies. It wasn’t revenge.
It was discipline.
It was legacy.
It was knowing exactly who the hell I was.
I buried enemies. Forgave sons. Broke curses. And rebuilt an empire stronger than the last.
So tonight, under this black chandelier, in a ballroom stained with old blood and new perfume, remind the world of one final thing:
A dynasty doesn’t end when the king dies.
It rises when the daughter sharpens her crown.
E.N.D
Happy Divorce MAN
