Matteo Corvatti was taller than I imagined. His suit was black, pressed, sharp enough to wound. When he turned toward me, the room seemed to grow colder—but not hostile. Not unkind. His presence wasn’t cruel. It was composed. Dangerous in its restraint. And when his eyes landed on me, I didn’t feel like a stranger. I felt recognized.

He said nothing for a long moment. Just studied me, like he was searching for a part of himself buried in my face. Then he spoke—low, measured.

“You have her eyes.” I blinked, unsure if I heard right.

“My mother?” I asked. He nodded once, and in that simple gesture was the weight of two decades.

“She died protecting you,” he said. “You were born into war, Aria. There were threats even before you took your first breath. She knew the world we lived in. She knew what would come for you if they ever knew you were mine.” My breath caught, and I didn’t move. He opened a drawer and placed a small box on the table.

Inside were photographs. Letters. Jewelry. Tiny shoes I once wore. A rattle. Newspaper clippings of attacks. A hospital bracelet with my name. He let me take my time. My hands trembled as I sifted through them. It was like meeting pieces of myself for the first time. Each item told a story I hadn’t lived—but that had shaped every day of my life.

“You are my only heir,” Matteo said as I gently closed the lid. “The Corvatti blood runs through you. You are your mother’s daughter. You are mine.” I looked at him then, steady and quiet. I didn’t know what to say. But he wasn’t finished.

He walked to the window and looked out over the hills.

“Your mother, Elira, was fire. She questioned everything. Challenged me. Loved me fiercely. And when I told her the threats against us were real, she didn’t flinch. She made me promise something. That if she died, I would make you safe. That I’d give you a chance at a life free of bloodshed.”

He turned back to me. “That’s why I placed you with Vittorio. He was a friend once. Not by choice, but by necessity. We made a pact after your mother’s funeral. No records. No names. You’d be protected by the enemy because no one would ever think I’d hide you there. It was the safest move I could make.”

I processed his words slowly, like each one weighed more than the last. “You hid me in a house that hated me,” I said finally. “Gianna. Alessia. Dante. They—”

He raised a hand gently. “I didn’t know they’d treat you as less. Vittorio swore you would be protected. Hidden, yes—but never harmed. I see now that I should have watched more closely.”

I folded my hands in my lap, voice even. “They didn’t break me.”

His expression didn’t shift, but I saw something in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Regret. Pride. He walked toward me again and this time held out something else. A single gold ring. The Corvatti crest.

“This belongs to you now,” he said. “You wear it only when you’re ready.”

I looked at the ring but didn’t take it.

“You offered me a seat beside you,” I said. “Wealth. Power. A title. But I don’t want to sit unless I’ve earned it.”

His brow lifted, and something new crossed his face—amusement, maybe even approval. I leaned forward. “I want to train. I want to learn the rules before I rewrite them. I don’t want to be a puppet. I want to be a player.”

“Do you know what makes this family feared?” he asked without turning. “Not wealth. Not weapons. It’s patience. We don’t react. We remember. We wait. And then we act so precisely they think it’s a prophecy.”

He led me into a long room with weapons on the wall and maps etched into glass. “This is where you’ll begin. Strategy. Language. Combat. Finance. Seduction.”

He moved toward a massive table and set his hand on a chessboard already mid-game. “You won’t be handed your name. You’ll earn it, piece by piece.”

I stared at the board. Black queen missing. White king cornered. One rook stood between check and surrender. He noticed me looking.

“Your mother was the queen,” he said. “I was the king. And Vittorio was the rook. Blocking what he could, but never enough.” The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. The missing piece was the one I’d become.

“How long will it take?” I asked.

He looked up. “That depends. Are you asking how long until you’re strong enough to sit beside me—or strong enough to sit alone?”

“You’ll begin here tomorrow,” he said. “Every Don studies first. We don’t speak without knowledge. We don’t rule without understanding loss.”

He handed me a small, leather-bound book. My mother’s initials were etched in gold across the front.

“She wrote this for you,” he said. “I never opened it. She asked me not to. It’s yours now.”

I held it like it might disappear. The first page was blank. The second began with: My Aria, if you’re reading this, then I am gone…