The D'Amato villa's foyer smelled like money and fear.
The marble floor was so immaculate it threw back the cold light of the ceiling fixtures. Behind the glass walls, cameras swept the space in slow, tireless arcs. Men in suits stood by the doors, motionless as statues, hands folded the way they fold them when they are trained to wait for violence.
I didn't slow for a second. I stepped in, looked around, and understood immediately: this place wasn't anyone's home. It was an empire that happened to have hallways. Marco walked beside me. Two D'Amato men followed behind. One had the kind of face people instinctively avoid. The other was Enzo, bald, thick-necked, the one who'd hit me.
From the corner of my eye I saw him drop his gaze as I entered.
I didn't speak to him. I don't forget.
At the far end of the hall a staircase climbed upward. At the top, a figure stood waiting. Tall. Straight-backed. Black suit, buttoned shirt. No jewelry, no tie. His posture was measured, precise, as if his body had been trained the same way his mind had. He stayed still for a few seconds, then started down. The sound of his shoes cracked sharply against stone.
I knew who he was before anyone said it.
Rafael D'Amato.
He stopped in front of us, looked me over, and said nothing. His eyes were a cold gray-blue. There was nothing in them but calculation. The way he stared made it feel like I wasn't a person, just a shipment that had finally arrived.
I lifted my chin in open contempt.
"I thought the famous D'Amato heir would at least say hello when someone enters his house."
A half smile flickered across his mouth.
"I don't usually. Greetings are for guests."
"And what am I?"
"An agreement. Nothing more."
My voice carried in the hall.
"Fine. Then let's make something clear. I didn't ask for this agreement."
"You weren't the decision-maker," he said, smooth as if he were reading from a document. "And your word doesn't matter anymore."
"Go to hell."
His expression didn't twitch.
"Plenty of people have tried. None of them did well."
Marco made a tight sound beside me, like he wanted to smother the moment before it turned into something worse.
"Rafael, she's had a long trip, maybe…"
"Stay out of this, Marco," Rafael cut in quietly, but in a way that made the air lock. After that, nobody wanted to speak.
He stepped closer. Half a meter between us. I caught his scent: clean, neutral, cold, like hospital air. He assessed me openly, without shame.
"Smaller than I expected."
"And you're more boring than I thought," I shot back.
Something flashed in his eyes. Not anger. Attention.
"Your father could at least negotiate. You just run your mouth."
"He sold you his soul, not mine."
"I don't need your soul," he said softly. "Just what you represent."
"The Costa name?"
"Exactly."
"And if I say I don't give a damn about the Costa name?"
"You'll wear it anyway. At this level, what matters isn't what you want. It's what the world sees when it looks at you."
My voice hardened.
"So I'm supposed to be a display piece."
"We don't fight wars with photographs," he replied, unhurried, "but we can end them with what people believe they mean. The families want to see it work."
"And you believe it will?"
"I don't care what I believe. I care what they believe about us."
I stared at him. He wasn't hot-headed. He didn't shout. He didn't radiate sloppy aggression. Every word was disciplined.
That was what made him frightening.
"So you really are nothing but business," I said.
"At least I play honestly. I don't pretend it's anything else."
"Good. I won't pretend I don't hate you."
"The feeling's mutual."
The air tightened between us. The guards watched in silence, black shapes on the edge of my vision.
Then Rafael spoke again.
"Did they hit you?"
For a second I didn't understand why he was asking. The corner of my mouth still burned where the cut had split. I shrugged.
"Doesn't matter."
"I didn't ask for a story," he said. "I asked for a name."
"I don't care."
"I do," he replied, with no sympathy in his tone. Just ownership of the fact. "My men know we don't hit women."
I let out a short, mocking breath.
"How noble. A moral code in the mafia."
He turned his head and signaled one of the guards.
"Tomorrow, the one who used his hand won't be here."
Marco stepped in immediately.
"Rafael, Enzo made a mistake, but…"
"No," Rafael cut him off. "There is no but."
His gaze stayed on me, as if he was measuring my reaction, not Marco's defense.
I didn't give him one. I could feel it in my bones: this wasn't kindness. It was control. For him everything was a tool. A man. An error. A consequence. He arranged them neatly and called it order.
He faced me again.
"Your room is ready. Tomorrow morning, a press conference. Until then, rest, eat, sleep, don't sleep, I don't care. But at eight, you'll be downstairs."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then I'll come get you."
"You really think you can command me?"
"I don't think," he said. "I know."
"And if I try to run?"
"Then we catch you again," he replied with the same calm he'd use to comment on weather. "And believe me, next time it won't be only Enzo's hand moving."
"So you're threatening me."
"No," he said. "I'm informing you."
I drew a slow breath.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can try," he replied. "No promise I'll answer."
"Why don't you flinch at what you're doing?"
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I flinch at what other people do while they pretend they're better than me. At least I don't lie about what I am."
I smiled without humor.
"Then stay a monster. Just don't expect me to help you play the part."
"I don't need help," he said. "I need you to stand where you're placed when it matters."
I moved around him, heading for the stairs. Two guards were already waiting to escort me to the assigned room. As I passed him, I stopped for one beat.
"Remember one thing, D'Amato," I said quietly. "I'm not my father."
I felt him listening to my voice, weighing the steel in it, the anger no one usually dared to put in front of him.
"I know," he answered, just as quietly. "He at least knew when to be silent."
I stepped onto the first stair and looked back.
"Don't forget I won't."
Then I went up. My heels struck the steps, each knock echoing through the hall. The metallic taste of blood still clung to my throat, my face still pulsed with the aftermath of the hit. I didn't look back again.
I counted the steps to the corner, and with every echo I stored another piece of data: the rhythm of the house, the way the walls threw sound back, the guards' breathing patterns. Up ahead, at the next turn, two shadows shifted: my escort.
My hand hung loose at my side.
Inside, every muscle stayed ready.
Two worlds. One house.
And if it comes down to blood, it won't be on my account. It'll be on the one who earns it.