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I set the photograph down carefully, collecting myself. “I want what’s rightfully ours. What was stolen from us.” I meet each man’s gaze in turn. “I want justice for our parents. I want the DeLuca name to mean something in this city again.”

The men exchange glances, measuring my resolve.

“And how do you propose to achieve this?” asks Franco, the one with the glasses. “Salvatore Bianchi holds power beyond anything we’ve faced. His son Marco has modernized their operations, made them nearly untouchable.”

The mention of Marco’s name sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. “Our eight families together are stronger than House Bianchi,” I state, my voice carrying an authority I didn’t know I possessed. “United under the DeLuca banner, we can reclaim what was taken from us.”

“Aria,” Chiara whispers urgently beside me. “Don’t do this. That really means starting a war against the Bianchis. It’s too reckless.”

I turn to her, seeing the fear in her eyes. “I’m not afraid,” I say quietly. “Even if I have to burn to ashes, I’ll face whatever comes.”

Returning my attention to the men, I continue. “I’m not doing this for power. I’m doing this for vengeance. For justice. For the truth to finally come to light after twenty-five years of darkness.”

“It won’t be easy,” says Lorenzo, the eldest. “The Bianchis have roots everywhere—police, politics, judiciary.”

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” I counter.

Ettore stands, raising his glass. “To the DeLuca heirs,” he declares. “To Aria and Chiara. May their father’s legacy live on through them.”

One by one, the other men rise, glasses lifted in solemn tribute. Even the most hesitant among them cannot resist the pull of old loyalties awakened.

“We pledge ourselves to House DeLuca,” says Ettore, his hazel eyes blazing. “Our resources, our men, our lives if necessary.” His gaze locks with mine. “Command us, and we will follow.”

The power of the moment washes over me like a wave—these men, these powerful figures in the criminal underworld, awaiting my direction. For a moment, I feel dizzy with the possibility of it all. Then I remember my purpose and feel myself harden.

“First,” I say, “we gather intelligence. I want to know everything about Salvatore Bianchi’s operation—every warehouse, every shipment, every dirty cop on his payroll.”

The men nod in approval.

“And second,” I continue, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “we send a message. To let them know the DeLucas have returned.”

The room falls silent, waiting for my next words. I feel Chiara tense beside me, but I cannot stop now. The momentum carries me forward.

“One name must be whispered through the streets,” I say, each word like ice from my lips. “Marco Bianchi. The son, raised by the man who butchered our family.”

The men exchange glances, understanding the implication. Lorenzo, the eldest, leans forward. “You speak of the son, not the father?”

“Salvatore will pay for what he did,” I assure him. “But Marco…” I pause, swallowing down the bitter taste of betrayal that rises in my throat. “Marco knew who I was. Knew every buried truth, every drop of my family’s blood—yet still took me as his wife.”

The room erupts in murmurs of outrage. Even in their world, with its flexible morality, some actions cross unforgivable lines.

“Then it will be as you wish,” says Ettore, his expression grave. “We will help you destroy Marco Bianchi.”

I nod, feeling something break and reform inside me—something harder, colder, more determined than before. Thewoman who left Marco’s house a week ago no longer exists. In her place stands Aria DeLuca, heir to a blood-soaked legacy.

“Good,” I say. “Because I will be the one to end him. None of you will so much as raise a finger in his direction. He’s mine.”

As the men raise their glasses again, I catch Chiara’s worried gaze. She sees what I’ve become. Perhaps she fears I’ll lose myself in this pursuit of vengeance.

Perhaps she’s right to worry.

But I’ve made my choice. There’s no room for mercy in my heart anymore, no space for the love I once felt for Marco Bianchi. There is only the cold certainty of what must be done.

He was raised by the man who butchered my family.

And I will be the one to end them all.

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