My grandfather had not just given me power.
He had practically sent me away.
The moment the meeting ended, he had asked me to stay. I remained seated, leaning back in my chair, hands folded neatly over my thighs, as the last of the man filed out. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing us inside the cavernous room.
"I'm sorry, Nonno," I began at last, my gaze fixed on my hands.
"I know you didn't kill him, Isolda," he said. His voice was rough, worn down in a way I had never heard before.
For the first time in a long while, he looked old.
The lines in his face had deepened, his posture slackened just slightly, as if the weight of decades had finally decided to show themselves. He looked tired. Not weakened, but burdened.
"I know you loved him," he said. "You still do, by the look of it."
He didn't have to tell who he meant. I already knew. Alexandre.
"Nonno, I—"
"That's all right," he interrupted gently. "I know that feeling. I was your age once." A pause. Then, quieter, more personal. "I was simply fortunate enough to fall in love with the right woman."
I said nothing. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't unravel me.
"One day," he continued, his voice steady again, sharpened by resolve, "when all your memories come back, you will think me the villain." His words cut cleanly through the silence. "But I hope that, deep down, you will understand that I am doing this for your own good. And for the good of the family."
His gaze held mine then, unwavering.
"You are all I have left, nipotina."
"I know, Nonno," I said quietly, my gaze fixed on my hands. "I never meant for this to happen."
"But it did," he replied, his tone firm, unyielding. "And I am not going to lose the last of my family." He leaned forward slightly. "So you will find a way to fix this, Isolda."
I nodded once.
He pushed himself to his feet, slower this time. I did not move to help him, though. I simply watched as he gripped the head of his cane, his knuckles whitening as he steadied himself.
Grandpa left without another word.
And only when the door clicked shut behind him did I let myself fold. I leaned my elbow against the table and covered my eyes, breathing in deep, measured pulls of air, trying to keep my grief locked away, contained. I couldn't handle it right now.
But the least I could do was make sure Dario hadn't died in vain.
My phone vibrated inside the pocket of my black suit jacket. I pulled it out, my brows knitting at the unfamiliar number glowing across the screen. I answered anyway. I already knew who it would be.
"Princess," his voice drawled the moment I lifted the phone to my ear.
"I'm surprised you still have the audacity to call me," I said, my tone clipped, sharpened only by restraint. "After everything you've done."
A low chuckle followed. "I've done nothing actually," he replied smoothly, "except protecting what's mine."
"By murdering the man I was going to marry?"
"I saved you from a marriage that was doomed long before it began," he said calmly. "Consider it a mercy, my love."
I closed my eyes for a second. Just to hold back the tears. "What do you want?"
A soft laugh. "Aside from you?" he murmured. "Nothing, really."
Then his voice dropped, intimate and certain. "I will have you again, Princess. And when I do, I'll treat you right this time. I'll hand you everything, even the world you were always meant to rule."
I let out a breath that trembled despite my effort to steady it. "Enough," I said quietly. "I don't belong to you. The man I truly belonged to is dead. He never would have done this."
Silence stretched between us, taut as a wire.
"You killed him the moment you threatened me, the moment you shot Dario," I went on, my voice hardening. "So don't stand there and tell me you're doing this for me."
His exhale was slow. Controlled.
"Now you're being unfair," he said at last. "Because the woman I loved, Lila Barinov—" his voice dipped, edged with something raw, "she wouldn't have done half the things you've done either."
My fingers curled around the phone.
"She wouldn't even know how to operate a gun, let alone use it for a living," he continued. "She couldn't even lie or manipulate. You are definitely something else, Isolda. And so am I."
A pause. Then softer, almost wounded.
"You see," he said, his voice lowering, smoothing at the edges, "I finally understand it now. We weren't losing each other. We were only ever hiding our truest selves all this time, but the love is still there."
The words might have once undone me. Might have felt like a confession instead of an excuse.
"I don't love you anymore," I said simply.
The silence on the other end was no longer taut with control. The cracks were starting to show.
"Isolda—"
"The man I loved wouldn't call this love," I continued, steady despite the ache tightening my chest. "And the woman you're chasing doesn't exist anymore. Maybe she never did."
I ended the call before he could answer.
The line went dead, and I stayed there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, lungs burning as I drew in a slow, deliberate breath. Then another. Letting the weight of him, of Dario, of everything I had lost and become, settled where it belonged.
I straightened.
Whatever was left of me would survive this too.
I stood up and crossed the room. Heading towards the sideboard, my heels echoing softly against the marble floor. The whiskey decanter waited there, heavy and cut with precision like everything else in this house.
I poured myself a glass without measuring, watching the amber liquid catch the light before I lifted it to my lips. It burned on all the way down. Grounding.
My phone was already in my hand when I set the glass aside.
"Prepare the jet," I said when my assistant answered, my voice even, composed in a way that only came after the worst had already passed.
A brief pause. "Of course, Signorina. Where to, may I ask?"
I looked at my reflection in the darkened window overlooking the driveway. Men still lingered by the entrance, murmuring in low voices. Their sleek black cars lined in perfect, obedient rows, as if order could still be maintained.
"New York," I said at last. "As soon as you can arrange it."
"Yes, ma'am."
The call ended with a soft click. Then I gulped down the rest of my whiskey in one swallow, welcoming the burn, then turned away from the glass and the room, everything it represented.
I have a funeral to plan.