Chapter 14
Lester appeared, red–faced and panicked, dragging Edmund back. “Dad. Not here. We’re here for the Rossini alliance. Not for her circus.”
Rossini alliance? I almost burst out laughing.
Then he looked at me. That same boyish face, now molded into cruelty. He gave me that once–familiar, disgusted glance.
The kind men reserve for rotting fruit or women who outgrew them.
“You ran away to be a mistress,” Lester said. “That’s all you’ll ever be, huh?”
He took a step forward. “No wonder Dad hated you since I was six. You were always cheap.”
I said nothing.
Lucien started, “She’s not just anyone. She’s-”
I touched his arm. Gently. Silencing him. I turned back to Edmund and Lester, smiling just enough to frighten.
“Believe what you want. Mistress. Whore. Vanishing ghost.” I shrugged, sipping again. “I don’t care what name you give me.” I leaned closer. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The orchestra began to breathe again, soft music floating through the aftermath like perfume over blood.
I turned, walked back to my seat beside Lucien. Sat like nothing happened. Matteo met my eyes, nodding once. Enzo’s smirk said, We’re ready.
Let the auction begin.
Let the games burn.
“Tonight, you bid not only with money,” the auctioneer croons, voice smooth and sharp, “but with legacy.”
He looks right at me. Not past me. Not through me. At me. And I don’t blink. Lucien doesn’t move either. Matteo, Enzo, even old Don Angelo across the room–they’re all watching me now. “Let them bid. Let them sweat. I’m not here to play their game. I’m here to flip the damn board.” I memorize every face that raises a hand. The ones who stay still. The ones who whisper behind their wives‘ fans. Every flicker, every signal. They speak in money, but I speak in memory–and
revenge.
Then a new painting comes up next. Venetian oil. Old as sin and twice as twisted. I feel it before I see her–Elizabeth. Her perfume stabs first, something sour disguised as floral. She raises her paddle.
1 smile And raise mine.
She stares at me, eyes wild and fake–calm. She bids again. I go higher. No words. Just a glance.
The crowd’s murmuring now. The Morocco floor scrubber bidding like old blood royalty. What a
scene.
Elizabeth tries one last desperate bid. I lift one finger. Just one.
Sold.
5:18 am
Applause breaks out. Polite. Confused. Dangerous.
And then she opens her damn mouth.
“Huh. The poor girl who used to scrub floors on that Morocco estate has the thick face to bid here?” she practically shouts, eyes glassy, tone brittle. “No matter how high your bid was, Doris, you’re still the cleaner. The rags of Morocco. A rat in silk.”
The room hushes like someone slapped a cardinal.
My hand twitches. I want to backhand her so hard her teeth spell ‘regret‘ on the auction floor. Bu
“Control your emotions,” Lucien whispers beside me, low, deadly. “Not now. You kill her later. Not here.”
I swallow the fire. Hold my glass tighter. I glance toward Edmund.
He’s staring.
Not angry. Not disgusted.
Worshipping.
His eyes drag over me like I’m the holy damn grail and he’s dying of thirst. That smugness of his is cracked now, replaced with hunger and something far more dangerous–regret. Good. Let him
choke on it.
Then the lights change.
The auctioneer steps back.
Spotlights bloom.
And the name Angelo Rossini rolls out like thunder down a marble mountain.
Applause. Standing ovation. A few women cross themselves. He walks in like the Pope and the Devil got together and made a myth.
Matteo takes the mic.
“Tonight, we not only auction legacy–we reclaim it. The true heir has returned. Among you. She is 48 years old.”
Murmurs explode.
Chairs creak. Fans flutter. The room twists on itself, eyes flying across female faces. Then-
They look at Elizabeth.
She stands straighter. Chest out. Eyes wide like a deer suddenly handed a crown.
“Could it be her?” someone whispers.
“She fits the age…”
“She’s always had that aura.”
“Wasn’t she married to a Rossini once?”
“She always acted like she was somebody.”
The vultures circle. One man even bows slightly toward her. She smiles–tight, trembling, delusional.
1/3
49.4%
I sip my wine slowly. Then- Angelo Rossini moves. Slow, deliberate, a man who’s carried death in his pocket and dynasties in his shadow. His eyes scan the room. Skip Elizabeth. Pass the vultures. Land on me.
He walks straight to my table. Time slows. He offers his hand. I place mine in it.
He pulls me gently to my feet–and speaks.
“This,” his voice is thunder and prophecy, “is my daughter. My blood. My heir.”
The world stops.
Gasps erupt. Like fireworks breaking over stunned silence. Paparazzi explode in a storm of white light. Elizabeth flinches. Her glass wobbles. Falls. Shatters. Red wine bleeds down her gown like the final stain of a lie. Lester and Loisa? Pale as ash.
Edmund? Stone. Like someone carved betrayal into his bones.
I take one step forward. Lift my chin.
Then I speak. First time tonight. And when I do, it’s not a whisper–it’s legacy reborn.
“I’m honored,” I begin, voice calm as silk–wrapped steel, “to carry the Rossini name. To walk in the shadow of a man who built kingdoms… and now, to build something greater.”
I pause and smile gently.
Let it bleed.
“I was lost, once. Forgotten. But blood-” I glance sideways, right at Elizabeth, “-always knows where it belongs.”
The crowd inhales like I just slapped God. And across the room- Edmund.
Still staring.
Still frozen.
His mouth parts like he might speak. He doesn’t.
He can’t. He knows.
‘You stole everything from me. Tonight, I take it back.
***
The auction resumes. But the game has changed.
Now they’re bidding for my attention. Overbids fly. Items skyrocket to obscene prices. And every man who once saw me as background now tries to impress me with generational wealth and inherited bravado.
Lucien leans in again.
“You’ve got them hooked,” he whispers, voice slick with amusement. “Now reel in their secrets.”
I smile.
21
I don’t need to fish.
They’ll gut themselves for me.
