Emilia's POV
This wasn't my first rebellion.
Six years ago, at sixteen, grief made me mad.
After Paolo died—after I identified his carved-up body in the morgue because my father was "too busy" and Liliana was too broken—I almost burned Vittorio's empire down.
Some fathers mourn their dead son with tears, some seek revenge against the very family that cut him down by murdering everyone responsible. But mine? Mine negotiated a settlement for bigger control of the city from the Marchettis.
A dead son, a violated pregnant daughter in law and an orphaned granddaughter equaled three ports controll and a fucking barbecue machine.
So, I set it all on fire.
His response taught me exactly what kind of man raised me.
A month in little Italy detention center with violent criminals. For mourning my brother wrong.
That's where I met Linda.
And here we fucking go again.
The Conti mansion looked like a kicked hornet's nest.
Black SUVs choked the driveway, engines growling as armed men barked into radios.
Floodlights swept the grounds like searchlights over a prison yard.
I slid from Linda's van, keeping low. Gravel bit into my knees.
"What can I do?" Linda's face was all worry—pinched mouth, wide eyes. The same face she'd made six years ago when we first met, both of us scared girls in an impossible place. "How can I help, baby?"
"Go." I gripped her hand once, hard. "I mean it, Lyn. I don't want him to hurt you too."
"Emilia—"
"I'll be fine." I tried for a smile. Failed. "How angry can he be, right?"
Linda's silence said everything.
"Bye, Lyn."
The fence bit into my palms. I climbed anyway.
The courtyard was a disaster. Porcelain crunched under my heels—it was what remained of Vittorio's favorite vase, hurled at trembling Gracie.
"Gracie..." I whispered for her to look my way.
She did. "He knows. He know, baby"
If Gracie was calling me 'baby' a childhood pet name that stuck around to adulthood. Then Gracie was scared shitless and she was trying to hide it.
I winced. And gestured for her to step back.
"Sorry, Gracie. Sorry"
He stood in the center of it all. A god of wrath in an expensive suit.
I tried, for one absurd moment, to remember if he'd ever been kind. My mind returned empty.
Liliana and Paolo used to tell stories—a father who took them to parks, who bought them candy canes. Before Mama died. Before me.
They swore the birth that killed our mother changed him. My birth.
I never believed it. Vittorio was exactly who he'd always been. They just been too young to see.
Evil like that doesn't just emerge from nothing. Evil like that comes from an eviler core.
The morning sun glinted off the gold crucifix at his throat—the same one he'd pressed to Paolo's cold lips at the funeral.
Hypocrite. Fucking hypocrite.
"Dove eri?" His voice sliced through the chaos. Where were you?
"Out." I lifted my chin. Met his gaze, gestured for Gracie to run.
I could still smell Luca's cologne on my skin. Still felt his palm against my scar.
Vittorio moved faster than a man his size should. His hand locked around my arm, fingers bruising deep enough to leave tomorrow's marks.
"You vanish on your engagement night?" Spittle flew from his lips. "Humiliate me in front of the Marchettis?"
"Humiliate you?" I wrenched free, tears burning. "You sold me to the men who murdered Paolo! To animals who carved up my brother—"
The slap was harder than previous ones. Like before I would promise myself not to cry in front of him and like always my eyes teared up instantly.
I staggered. My ear rang. The courtyard went silent—guards freezing mid-stride, maids pressing against walls.
"You think you're special?" Vittorio's breath reeked of grappa and rot. "Your sister begged too. Now she spreads her legs for that Kamikaze dog and thanks me for the privilege."
My hand flew to my stinging cheek.
And Vittorio froze.
His gaze snagged on my neck, where the collar of my dress had slipped. A bruise 0bloomed there—violet, unmistakable hickey. Lucas had left a mark.
"Troia." Whore.
The word hung in the air, thicker than the gardenia-scented breeze. A brand no father should ever give a daughter.
"What...what did you just call me, Baba?"
"You let some gutter rat defile my bloodline?" His voice dropped to something worse than a roar. "Tonight, you marry Enzo. And when I find your little bastard—" He drew a thumb across his throat.
My courage fractured.
I fled through the mansion, past oil portraits of dead Contis judging me with Paolo's eyes. Their faces blurred through tears I refused to shed. My bedroom door slammed. The lock clicked.
I hurled a vase at the wall. It was the one thing we had in common, our ability to throw lovely vases in anger. The only other thing we had in common was our ability to hate each other completely... thoroughly. Wholeheartedly...without any reservation.
"You'll kneel at that altar!" Vittorio roared from the hall. "Or I'll bury you next to your brother!"
Strange...I believed him. What an odd thing for one to believe about her father. What a relationship we have, Vittorio Conti.