Chapter 1
The afternoon sun poured through the massive skylights of the Mancini estate, bathing the second-floor landing in a wash of brilliant, unforgiving light. The corridor was a masterpiece of modern wealth, all crisp white wainscoting, polished oak floors, and vibrant, expensive artwork. Everything was immaculate, bright, and meticulously controlled. Yet, the pristine atmosphere was currently being shattered by an act of casual, breathtaking cruelty.
Donatella Mancini stood in the doorway of the estate’s largest master bedroom, her posture rigid with aristocratic entitlement. At sixty-seven, she remained a terrifyingly elegant matriarch. She wore a tailored designer suit in a striking shade of ivory, heavy pearl jewelry resting against her collarbone, and pristine heels that clicked sharply against the hardwood. Her fair skin, touched with a rosy, flushed undertone, pulled tight over high cheekbones as she looked down at the small child before her.
Five-year-old Elodie clutched a worn stuffed rabbit to her chest. She wore a simple, pale blue dress, a soft white cardigan, and little black flats. Her porcelain skin was flushed pink with confusion and rising panic. She had just been trying to carry her favorite toy into her own bedroom, only to find her path blocked by the woman who was supposed to be her grandmother.
Without a flicker of hesitation, Donatella reached out and violently shoved the little girl away from the doorframe.
The force of the push sent Elodie stumbling backward. Her small flats caught on the thick edge of the hall runner, and she fell hard onto the carpet, landing awkwardly beside a towering stack of expensive moving boxes. The stuffed rabbit tumbled from her grasp, skidding across the polished floorboards.
Behind Donatella, lounging against the doorjamb with his hands tucked into his pockets, was Rocco Mancini. At thirty-nine, Vittorio’s younger brother possessed the same fair, rosy complexion as the rest of the family, but his features were softer, spoiled by decades of avoiding the true, bloody work of their syndicate. He wore a sharply tailored navy suit, a heavy gold signet ring catching the bright sunlight, and a smirk that twisted his face into an ugly mask of entitlement. Men in professional dark suits were already carrying his expensive belongings into the room that, until ten minutes ago, had belonged to his niece.
Standing frozen near the opposite wall was Greta Vale. The twenty-nine-year-old maid, dressed in a crisp professional uniform complete with a stiff white collar, a spotless apron, thick tights, and sensible flats, held Elodie’s folded floral bedding in her trembling arms. Her fair skin had gone chalk-white. She wanted to intervene, her maternal instincts screaming at her to help the fallen child, but the sheer, suffocating authority of the Mancini matriarch kept her paralyzed.
Donatella looked down at Elodie, who was now clutching her scraped elbow, her lower lip quivering. The older woman’s eyes were completely devoid of warmth. When she spoke, her American accent was sharp, flat, and devoid of any grandmotherly affection.
May you like
“A real heir gets the best room,” Donatella said, her voice cold and heavy with contempt.
Rocco chuckled, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored shirt. He didn't even look at the little girl on the floor. In his mind, and in Donatella’s, a female child was nothing but a liability. The Mancini empire required a strong, male presence, and Rocco had long believed that he was the true future of the family. Elodie let out a soft, heartbreaking whimper, tears finally spilling over her rosy cheeks as the reality of her displacement set in.
