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Even though he's 34, ten years older than me, he likes to be in competition with me , always trying to prove he’s the better Rossi, the true heir. He’s called me the “perfect” one for years, spitting the word like it’s a curse, and I know he’s about to let that bitterness spill over, right here, with Papa fading between us.
“Fina,” he says. His voice is low, like he intends to bleed me out slowly. He's willing to draw the first blood, and I'm ready for him. I turn to him, meeting his gaze. His green eyes blaze fire, so like mine but twisted with something ugly.
How can two people be so alike, yet different? We both take after Papa mostly, only I have the physique of our mother. When I was little, I looked up to him, always trying to please him. For a while, our sister-brother dynamic had worked, until it didn't. Something had happened along the line and severed our bond. Perhaps, it was before I left for the USA or even years before that.
I look at my brother, really look at him. He looks… different from the Riccardo I used to know. He looks like has a couple demons he's battling. I almost feel pity for him, but I harden my heart. He doesn't deserve it. His dark hair’s a mess, stubble rough on his jaw. His eyes look haunted. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
Well, good for him.
“Didn’t think you’d drag yourself away from your Mancini so soon,” he says, his words cold. “Guess even a dying father can’tstop you from playing the perfect little wife, and…” he sizes me up distastefully before landing the real blow, “…and whore for the enemy.”
I used to wonder if he dissociated from himself before spitting those venomous words at me, because for a while, I couldn't reconcile the Riccardo I knew as a child to the one he grew up to become.
The words hit hard, like a visceral punch to the gut, and my chest tightens, shame and rage twisting together… and something else. Rage—it surges through me like wildfire. He’s trying to hurt me, to cut where I’m already raw, and it’s working, the sting of his words sinking deep.
Perfect little wife… and whore.Isn't it true? The fact that his words hit home more than he'd ever know has my insides twisting with murderous rage.
I draw myself up short, standing to my full height, my heels clicking as I face him fully. My hands are clenched at my sides, a futile attempt at reining in my anger. “Riccardo,” I say, my voice cold, the kind of cold that makes men flinch, the kind I reserve for the runts of the litter. Even at that, I'm holding on lightly to my temper.
He’s my elder brother, and even if we don’t see eye to eye, I can’t tear into him the way I want to, not with Papa watching. “You don’t get to say that to me. You're the one who started this mess. This only happened because of your fuck up. You hit the Mancini operation on the docks, thinking you’d show you’restrong. When it did, you ran like a scalded cat, refusing to take responsibility, like you always do. All you did was force Papa’s hand, and now I’m the one paying for it, married to a man I can’t stand. So don’t you dare act like I wanted this.”
My voice shakes with the memory of that day, walking into Papa’s meeting room, seeing Enzo, the stranger from that reckless night four years ago, and learning he was Enzo Mancini, my enemy, my husband-to-be. I should've guessed something of the sort would happen, from Papa's tone that afternoon at the orchard when he told me what Riccardo had done.
And now I'm the one paying for it, married to a man I can’t stand.The words I'd uttered haunts me. I can't stand Enzo? What a blatant lie.
Riccardo’s face hardens and his eyes narrow, like he's ready to deliver another blow. I see the guilt flicker in his eyes, just for a moment, before he buries it under a sneer. “You think you’re so pure, Fina,” he snaps, stepping closer, his voice rising. “The perfect little Rossi, always doing what Papa wants, always so smart. But you’re nothing now. Just a Mancini’s trophy, sold off to keep the peace. You’ve shamed us all.”
His words are a knife, gutting deeper, and my resolution falters. I feel the doubt creep in, the fear that he’s right, that I’ve lost myself in this marriage. But I shove it down. Riccardo has nothing on me.
My steely eyes locks firmly on him. “That’s enough, Riccardo. You don’t get to judge me. You made your choices, and I’m livingwith them. So stop acting like I’m the one who failed this family, when incessant failure is the only thing you've done for this family.”
I step closer, my breath steady now, my eyes never leaving his. I want him to see that I won’t break, not for him, not now, not ever. Riccardo’s face is a mask of anger, his green eyes flashing with resentment, but I stand my ground, showing him the steel beneath my skin, the strength he’s always underestimated.
“Enough,” Papa’s voice slices through the room, weak but sharp, cutting our argument short. I turn to him, the fight draining out of me like water from a cracked glass, and Riccardo does the same. He’s sitting up slightly in his chair, his frail body trembling with the effort, his face pale and drawn.
His breathing is ragged, each inhale a struggle, but his eyes burn with a fire he still has in him, despite his health.
Those green eyes, the ones we inherited, hold a fierce determination, a reminder of the man he used to be, will always be—the man who built an empire on blood and steel. Seeing that fire now, even dimmed by illness, makes my chest ache with a mix of love and fear.
“You two will stop this,” he says, his voice trembling with the effort it takes to speak, his Italian accent thick and heavy. “I’m dying. Soon.” The words hang in the air, a heavy truth that presses down on me, and I feel my throat tighten. Death isn't something I'd ever come to relate with Papa. “And I won’t leave this world watching my children tear each other apart.”
His words hit harder than anything Riccardo said. The truth of it steals the breath from my lungs. He'll die inevitably, it's true. The ache in my chest spreads, heavy and cold, settling deep in my bones. I’ve known Papa was sick, but hearing him say it like this, so final, makes it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“Papa,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I kneel beside him again, taking his hand in mine. His skin is cold, too cold, and I feel the tremor in his fingers as I hold them. Riccardo moves to Papa’s other side, his face tight, his anger still simmering beneath the surface but muted by Papa’s plea.
“You both are the future of the Rossi empire. If you both don't sheathe your sword now and heal the crack from within, our enemies will tear us apart, and the only thing that'll be left of us will be tales of what we used to be. You're going to carry on my legacy,” Papa says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, his eyes moving between us. “In harmony. Together.” He pauses, his gaze steady despite the pain etching lines into his face. “The Rossi name means something. Don’t let it die with me.”
His hand tightens on mine, a fragile but firm grip, and I nod, my throat too tight to speak, my heart heavy with the weight of his words. Riccardo mutters a quiet “Yes, Papa,” his voice gruff, his anger tempered by what Papa had said.
The future of the Rossi empire indeed rests on us and the sooner we bury this sibling rivalry between us, the better. I look at Riccardo who conveniently avoids my gaze as he walks away.
At the door, he pauses, “oh, by the way, good of your husband to finally let Luis go.”
“Luis?” I mutter, my mind calling up his face. “What do you mean?”
“I got a call from him before you arrived. I've gone to see him. He's been battered roughly. Hell of a tough guy, your husband,” he says, his mouth twisting in a mocking smile.
I watch him go, barely unable to process what he'd said. I look to Papa who nods slightly. Apparently, he knows of it, and I'm the only one left out of the loop.