Page 36 of Fire and Silk

What they didn’t understand—what they still don’t—is that I’m not like them. They hoard power like rats hoard food. Greedy, desperate, afraid. I don’t want it. I never have. And that’s why I win.

I don’t fight to possess. I fight because it amuses me.

BecauseI can.

I chuckle quietly, rolling my shoulders and pacing back toward the fireplace. The nose she bloodied still aches faintly. I touch it and smile wider. A gift. One I didn’t expect.

Then I murmur her name aloud for the first time since leaving her—

“Lira Marcelline Falco.”

It rolls off my tongue like a secret.

What was it about your mother that made my father—my father—hand over everything like a spineless romantic?

My father, who never loved anyone, who never showed tenderness, who barely acknowledged me outside of strategy meetings and bloodline lectures…

And yet, there she was.

I cross to the drawer beneath the antique liquor cabinet. It sticks slightly when I pull it open—old wood, older secrets. I reach inside and remove the envelope tucked beneath a false bottom.

Inside is a torn photograph. A grainy shot, black and white. Creased at the center. My father—young, leaner, not yet hollowed by the weight of the name Dantès. And beside him…

Her.

Chiara Falco.

They’re outside somewhere, a cliff maybe, Italy from the look of it. Her dark hair is caught mid-laugh. His hands are on her waist. They’re kissing like fools. Like the world isn’t watching.

I stare at it for a long time.

He never touched my mother that way. Hell, I can barely remember them in the same room.

But here—he’s smiling. Not the smirk he wore like armor. Somethingreal.

And Chiara looks… blissful. Reckless.

A goddess made mortal, just long enough to ruin him.

I tuck the photo back into the envelope and slide it into my inner breast pocket. I’ll have it digitized. Preserved. Studied, maybe.

Because whatever spell she cast on him, her daughter is carrying the same poison.

And I want to be the one who learns exactly how it works.

The door opens without ceremony—no knock, no clearance. Only one man walks into my space that way.

Matteo steps inside, rain clinging to the hem of his coat, tablet in hand. His eyes flick briefly to the tissue stained with dried blood on the side table, then back to me. “You asked for thebackground on Miss Falco’s connections,” he says evenly. “I’ve got it.”

I wave him in with two fingers and take the tablet. The screen lights up, casting a soft glow against the carved lines of my face. My fingers scroll, slow and unhurried.

“She’s got two people,” Matteo begins, his voice smooth but clipped, like he already doesn’t like where this is going. “First—Nicola Garvez. Bartender. She worked with Lira. Lives three blocks from her. Friend. Maybe more. It’s hard to tell.” He nods toward the screen.

A photo of Nicola appears—laughter caught mid-frame, her arm slung around Lira’s shoulder like she belongs there. Dark curls. Wide mouth. Dangerously warm eyes.

“She’s made three reports since the day of the abduction,” Matteo continues. “Told the police the note left behind wasn’t real. She’s claiming Miss Falco would never leave without telling her first. She's persistent. Not hysterical, just... certain. Like she knows something’s wrong but can’t prove it.”

My brow lifts. “Has she been silenced?”