GIULIANA POV
The funeral felt like theater.
Everyone playing roles. Grieving family members. Respectful allies. Concerned business partners.
All of it performance.
I sat in the front row of the chapel and watched people who hated my father pretend they loved him.
Representatives from every major crime family in Europe filled the pews. Calabrians. Romans. Russians. Even Chinese.
All of them dressed in black. All of them offering sympathy.
All of them calculating whether the Moretti empire was weak enough to take.
I felt like prey surrounded by predators.
The priest spoke in Italian about my father's dedication to family. His strength. His legacy.
He didn't mention the violence. The deaths. The blood that built everything we were sitting in.
Funerals weren't for truth.
They were for lies that made everyone feel better.
After the service, they lined up.
One by one. Offering condolences that felt like threats.
A man from Naples told me my father was a great leader.
Translation: you're not.
A woman from Rome said the family would need strong guidance going forward.
Translation: you can't provide it.
A Russian whose name I didn't catch squeezed my hand too hard and smiled.
Translation: we're coming for your territory.
I smiled at all of them. Said thank you. Played the grieving daughter.
Inside, I was screaming.
Marco found me after the chapel emptied.
Cornered me near my father's study while most people were at the reception.
"Giuliana." His hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. Possessive. "We need to discuss the family's future."
I stepped back. His hand fell away.
"We will," I said. "Soon."
"Soon isn't good enough." His voice dropped. Harder. "The empire is unstable. We have rivals testing our borders. We have internal divisions. We need strong leadership immediately."
"You mean male leadership."
"I mean experienced leadership. You've been gone six years. You don't understand how things work anymore."
"Then educate me."
His eyes narrowed. "I'm trying to. Let me help you, Giuliana. Let me handle operations while you adjust. Let me be what your father was until you're ready."
Until I was ready.
Meaning never.
"I'll consider it," I lied.
Marco studied my face. He knew I was lying.
But he couldn't push harder without revealing his hand completely.
"Don't take too long," he said. "Decisions that wait become decisions made for you."
Then Dante appeared.
Out of nowhere. Standing beside me like he'd materialized from shadows.
"Giuliana has all the experience she needs," he said.
The temperature dropped.
Marco turned. Eyes cold. "This is a private conversation, Dante."
"Nothing is private in this family."
They stared at each other. Two predators sizing each other up.
I should have been relieved. Should have been grateful for the interruption.
Instead, I felt angry.
"I can handle this," I said to Dante.
"I know you can."
"Then let me."
His eyes met mine. Dark. Unreadable.
Then he looked at Marco.
"If you pressure her again," Dante said quietly, "we're going to have a problem."
Marco smiled. Dangerous.
"Are we choosing sides already, Dante? Interesting."
He walked away.
Leaving me standing there with Dante.
"I didn't need you to do that," I said.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
"Because Marco is dangerous. And you need to know who your enemies are."
"And who are my enemies?"
"Everyone except me."
I laughed. It came out harsh.
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest."
Before I could respond, Victor Leone appeared. Needing my attention.
I walked away from Dante.
But I could feel his eyes following me.
Always watching.
Isabella found me during the reception.
She didn't bother with pretense.
"Enjoying your inheritance?" Sharp. Bitter.
"Not particularly."
"Good. You shouldn't." She leaned against the wall. Watching me like a predator watches wounded prey. "You left. Abandoned the family. Now you think you can waltz back and take everything?"
"I didn't ask for this."
"None of us ask for what we get." Her smile cut like a knife. "But some of us earned it. You just got lucky being legitimate."
The word stung.
I'd never thought about what it meant for Isabella. Being my father's daughter but never acknowledged. Never given the same opportunities.
"I'm sorry," I said.
She laughed. "Don't be sorry. Be smart. Step aside. Let someone who actually knows how to run this empire take control."
"Someone like you?"
"Someone like me."
At least she was honest.
"I can't do that," I said.
"Then you're going to die here." She pushed off the wall. Stopped at my shoulder. "Just like father did."
Then she left.
I stood alone. Surrounded by family photos on the walls.
Generations of Morettis staring down at me.
All of them looking disappointed.
Victor found me there.
He didn't say anything. Just took my hand in both of his and squeezed gently.
"Your father loved you," he said. "He didn't know how to show it. But he did."
It was the first honest thing anyone had said all day.
I almost cried.
Instead, I thanked him and escaped.
Antonio Ricci was waiting in my father's study.
The lawyer. Same man who'd called me in London.
He handed me papers. The will.
I inherited everything. The businesses. The properties. The empire.
All of it.
Because I was the legitimate heir. Because succession laws were clear.
Not because my father believed in me.
Because he had no choice.
"There's also this," Antonio said.
He handed me an envelope. My name in my father's handwriting.
My hands shook opening it.
Inside was a single page.
Giuliana,
If you're reading this, I'm dead. Probably killed by someone I trusted.
I spent your whole life thinking you were weak. You chose books over blood. Philosophy over power. I thought that made you useless.
I was wrong.
Refusing to become me didn't make you fragile. It made you different.
I built this empire on violence and fear. It's strong, but it's brittle. One crack and everything shatters.
Perhaps you can build what I only knew how to defend.
I'm sorry I never told you this while I was alive.
You were always enough.
You were always more.
— Vittorio
The words blurred.
I was crying before I realized I'd started.
Not for my father.
For the relationship we never had.
For the approval I'd spent twenty-six years wanting and finally got when he was dead.
Antonio left quietly.
I sat in my father's chair. At his desk. In the room where he was killed.
And I cried for everything I'd lost and everything I'd just inherited.
The weight crushed me.
An empire built on blood. A family that wanted me dead. Enemies I couldn't see.
And somehow I was supposed to transform all of it.
Impossible.
I heard footsteps in the hallway.
I wiped my eyes quickly. Tried to compose myself.
The door opened.
I expected Marco. Expected more pressure.
Instead, Dante stepped inside.
He closed the door carefully behind him.
Locked it.
Then he looked at me with eyes that saw everything.
The tears. The fear. The weight.
"We need to talk about the empire," he said.
But the way he said it.
The way he was looking at me.
He wasn't talking about the empire.
He was talking about something else entirely.
Something that made the air between us feel electric.
"What do we need to talk about?" I asked.
My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
Dante crossed the room. Stopped in front of the desk.
"You can't stay here," he said. "The compound isn't safe. Someone killed your father in this room three days ago. They could kill you just as easily."
"So what do I do?"
"You come to Milan. To my penthouse. You let me protect you while you figure out how to survive this."
"And in exchange?"
"You trust me completely."
I laughed. It sounded broken.
"Trust the man who just told me everyone except him is my enemy?"
"Yes."
"Why would I do that?"
He leaned forward. Hands on the desk. Close enough that I could see exhaustion in his face.
"Because I've been protecting you for ten years, Giuliana. Because I've watched you from shadows. Because every threat you didn't know about, I eliminated before it could touch you."
My breath stopped.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you were never as alone in London as you thought you were."
The confession hung between us.
Raw. Terrifying.
"You've been watching me?"
"Yes."
"For ten years?"
"Yes."
I should have been angry. Should have been terrified.
Instead, I felt something else.
Something I didn't have a name for.
"Why?" I whispered.
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Because from the moment I saw you at that family dinner when you were sixteen, you became the only thing in my life that mattered more than survival."
The words landed like an earthquake.
"That's insane."
"I know."
"That's obsession."
"I know."
"I should run."
"You could try."
The way he said it. Like a dare.
Like he knew I wouldn't make it ten feet.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
His eyes held mine. Dark. Intense. Honest.
"I want you alive. I want you safe. I want you to let me protect you the way I've been protecting you for ten years. Except now you'll know about it."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I'll protect you anyway. But it'll be harder for both of us."
I should have said no.
Should have run back to London.
Should have done anything except what I did next.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"I'll come to Milan. I'll let you protect me. I'll trust you."
Relief flickered across his face.
Then something darker.
"You should know what you're agreeing to," he said.
"Then tell me."
He leaned closer. So close I could feel heat radiating off him.
"I'm not going to be reasonable about your safety. I'm not going to give you space or privacy or freedom. I'm going to control every variable in your life to keep you alive."
"That sounds like a prison."
"It is."
"And you're telling me this why?"
"Because you deserve to know what you're walking into."
I held his gaze.
"Then I guess I'm walking into a prison."
Dante stared at me. Like he couldn't believe I'd agreed.
Like he'd expected me to run.
"You should get some rest," he said finally. "We leave for Milan tomorrow morning. Early."
He turned to leave.
"Dante."
He stopped. Looked back.
"You said you've been watching me for ten years."
"Yes."
"Did you ever see me? The actual me? Or was I just something to protect?"
His expression shifted. Something raw flickering across his face.
"Every second I watched you," he said quietly, "you were the most real thing in my life."
Then he walked out.
Leaving me alone in my father's study.
Surrounded by ghosts and choices I couldn't take back.
And wondering if the most dangerous thing about Dante Russo wasn't his violence.
It was how much I wanted to believe him.