The shattered oath

My hand shook, the pregnancy test a death sentence in my grip, two pink lines burning my eyes in the dim bathroom of my family’s Sicilian estate. Pregnant—one word, my doom. Three days before my wedding to Matteo DeSantis, Papa’s chosen capo, but Matteo hadn’t touched me in five months, he was sent to Naples for the famiglia.

Tears blurred my vision, my breath ragged, chest tight like a vice.

Viktor Volkov’s ice-blue eyes haunted me, his hands claiming me, growling, “You’re mine, krasavitsa,” as he thrust into me that reckless night. I didn’t know he was the Bratva king, the monster who gunned down my mother, until weeks later when his photo stared at me from Papa’s study, cold and ruthless.

Matteo’s betrayal—a woman’s sultry moans on the phone, his pathetic lie, “I needed release”—drove me to that club, desperate to burn away the pain.

One night, and now Volkov’s child could destroy me. Naming him would be suicide; the Italians would tear me apart for carrying the enemy’s heir, a figlio illegitimo. A servant’s shadow flickered past the door, too quick, chilling my spine. Was someone watching, whispering my shame?

The door crashed open, my gasp sharp as the test clattered to the marble floor. Matteo loomed in the doorway, eyes narrowing, his broad frame filling the space.

“Emilia, what the—?” He froze, spotting the test, then lunged, snatching it before I could move. His face twisted with fury, veins bulging. “A pregnancy test?”

“Matteo, no—” My voice broke, hands scrambling, but he held it high, out of reach, his roar shaking the walls.

“Positive?” His voice was thunder, eyes wild. “I’ve been gone five months! Who’s the fu**ing father?”

“I don’t know!” I stammered, backing against the sink, my heart hammering so hard I thought it’d burst. I couldn’t say Volkov—the mafia’s war with the Bratva stole Mama, left her bleeding out in my arms. “It was a mistake, please, Matteo—”

“Don’t f*cking lie!” He grabbed my wrist, fingers bruising, yanking me so close his breath burned my face. “You f*cked someone else? Who? Tell me now!”

“Let go!” I twisted, crying, tears hot on my cheeks. “You screwed that wh*re! You don’t get to judge me!”

“That was nothing!” He shook me, the test clenched in his fist, his voice a snarl. “You’re mine, Emilia! Tell me who f*cked you, or I swear-” "Vincenzo has to hear this. I'm taking you to your father," he growled as he began to drag me.

“No!” My gown caught on my heels, stumbling as he dragged me toward the door, my pleas useless. “Matteo, Papa can’t know—”

“Move!”

He hauled me through the halls, my wrist screaming, to the ballroom where the pre-wedding gala buzzed with capos, Sicilian dons, and allies. Chandeliers gleamed, but Matteo’s voice cut sharper, a blade through the crowd.

“She’s pregnant!” He bellowed, slamming the test on Papa’s desk as capos swarmed the study, their eyes like wolves. “And it’s not mine!”

Gasps shattered the air, glasses smashing, shouts erupting. My face burned, shame exposed to the mafia’s elite, their whispers slicing my skin. Papa, Vincenzo Romano, silver-haired don, surged forward, eyes blazing like hellfire.

“Emilia!” His voice was a whip. “Who did this? Speak, now!”

“I don’t know!” I sobbed, hands guarding my stomach, trembling so hard my knees buckled. Volkov’s name would spark a war, slaughter my family. Matteo’s moans, that woman’s laugh, pushed me to that night.

“It was one night, Papa, I didn’t know him!”

“Liar!” Papa roared, seizing my throat, slamming me against the wall, his fingers crushing. “Name him, or I’ll choke it out of you!”

“Papa, stop!” I clawed at his hand, gasping, legs shaking, vision spotting. The crowd’s whispers were knives, my brothers Luca and Marco frozen, their faces pale.

Matteo lunged, fist raised, eyes crazed. “Tell us, you sl*t!”

Luca tackled him, Marco pinning him as he thrashed, spitting curses.

“You f*cking shamed me, Emilia!”

“I can’t!” I cried, Papa’s grip tightening, air gone. “I’m begging you—”

“Say it!” Papa’s fist cracked across my face, the slap echoing, ears ringing, pain exploding. “You’re no daughter of mine, and neither is that bastardo!”

“No!” My hand flew to my stomach, voice raw, tears streaming. “You can’t take my child, Papa, please!”

“Your child?” Marco sneered, stepping close, his voice dripping venom. “It’s a bastard, Emilia. You’re a Romano—you’re nothing now.”

Matteo broke free, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me like a rag doll. “You’ll beg for my forgiveness, or I’ll make you suffer!”

Luca shoved him back, fists flying, the room a chaos of shouts, capos surging, glasses shattering.

“Enough!” Papa’s bellow silenced the storm, his gun drawn, eyes lethal. “Clinic tomorrow. The wedding’s on. This ends.” He glared at Matteo, voice icy. “You’ll marry her, DeSantis, or you’re dead.”

Matteo’s eyes burned, love and hate colliding, his jaw tight. “I’ll do it,” he spat, voice low, vicious. “But she’ll pay for this, mark my words.”

The crowd’s whispers stung like wasps, my gown torn, cheek throbbing, blood trickling from my lips.

Luca lingered, his hand on my arm, voice low. “You’ve f*cked us all, Em. You had better fix this, or we’re done.”

I stood, trembling, Volkov’s touch, a ghost on my skin, that night, a rebellion against Matteo’s lies. My child was my fight, but the Italians would never let it live. I’d protect it, even if my hands had to drip with blood.

By dawn, my fate was sealed, Matteo dragging me to erase my shame. His Maserati roared from the estate, me in the passenger seat, face bruised, hands shaking, the clinic looming like a guillotine. Papa’s orders were clear: end the pregnancy, wipe out my sin. A knife to my throat silenced my voice, my heart screaming for my child.

“You’re too quiet,” Matteo growled, gripping the wheel, knuckles white. “Dreaming of your lover, huh?”

“Shut up,” I hissed, my voice quaking, tears threatening again. “You got what you wanted, Matteo. Leave me alone.”

“Not enough,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “You humiliated me in front of everyone. That kid’s a disgrace, and you’re going to pay for it."

“Pay?” I laughed, bitter, voice cracking. “You cheated first! You broke us, Matteo, not me!”

“You’re mine!” he roared, slamming the dashboard, the car swerving. “You think you can fu*ck around and walk away? I’ll make you beg, Emilia, I swear it!”

“Try it,” I spat, hands clutching my stomach, fear spiking. “Touch my child, and I’ll kill you myself.”

His phone buzzed, cutting him off, his face tightening as he answered. “What? When?” A curse, low and vicious. “Get to the estate, now!”

“What’s happening?” I asked, voice trembling, my gut twisting.

Matteo’s voice was ice, eyes dead ahead. “The Russians hit us. Torched our warehouse, butchered our men.”

My heart seized, hands shaking harder, Volkov’s name a poison in my mind. Why now? My secret, buried in terror, clawed its way up. His voice—“You’re mine”—echoed, fear drowning me. Was my child the target, or was this just another Bratva strike?

We stormed into the study, Papa and capos waiting, a bloodied capo on his knees, clutching a box, his face gray. He opened it, revealing three severed fingers, one with Paolo’s Romano signet ring, blood dripping onto the floor, the stench hitting me like a fist.

“Don!” the capo gasped, his voice shaking. "The Bratva hit at dawn. Burned the warehouse, killed Paolo, Rico, and Gino. They left this.”

Papa snatched the box, face ashen, pulling out a bloodied note, his voice trembling as he read, “You touch my young blood, I wipe out your entire existence.”

The room exploded; shouts, curses, guns drawn. Papa’s eyes snapped at me, raging a mask, his gun out, charging me.

“Volkov!” he screamed, grabbing my throat, slamming me to the floor, the gun pressed to my forehead, his finger twitching. “You carry that Russian dog’s child? You’ve doomed us all!”

“Papa, no!” I screamed, hands shielding my stomach, body shaking, tears choking me. “I didn’t know it was him! I swear, I swear!”

“Liar!” Papa roared, strangling harder, voice a snarl, his eyes wild. “You let our enemy defile you? You’ve brought war to our door!”

Luca and Marco lunged, wrestling the gun away, pinning Papa as he thrashed, cursing.

“Don, stop!” Luca shouted, voice desperate. “We’ll fix this, we’ll find a way!”

Matteo grabbed my arm, yanking me up, his face twisted with betrayal, spit flying. “Volkov? You fucked our enemy? You’ve killed us all, Emilia!”

“I didn’t know!” I sobbed, my voice breaking, trembling like a leaf. “It was one night, I didn’t know who he was, I swear!”

“You’re dead!” Papa broke free, lunging again, Marco barely holding him, his voice a howl. “You’ve betrayed us to the Bratva, you wh*re!”

“I didn’t tell him!” I cried, collapsing, hands clutching my stomach, the fear choking me. “I kept it secret! I don’t know how he found out!”

“You’ve brought hell on us, Emilia. You and that bastard child,” Matteo spat, his voice venomous, eyes burning with hate.

Papa’s glare was lethal, his voice a hiss, gun still in hand. “That child’s our death. Volkov’s coming, and you’ve given him the weapon to destroy us.”

My heart pounded, body quaking, Volkov’s words—“You touch my young blood, I wipe out your entire existence”—suffocating me. My secret was out, my child the spark to burn both empires. I whispered to my stomach, voice trembling, “I’ll protect you.” But Papa’s eyes promised murder, and the war had only just begun.

The night of fire

My fingers shook in my darkened room, Volkov’s note—“You touch my young blood, I wipe out your existence”—crushing my chest. The Bratva’s attack, three capos’ severed fingers, Papa’s strangling rage, choked me, my hand clutching my stomach, guarding my unborn child.

How did Volkov know about my pregnancy? The question dragged me back five months, to the night that shattered my world and chained me to him, a night I’d give anything to erase.

I curled on my velvet couch, the Romano estate a silent cage, my heart aching for Matteo. He’d been in Naples for weeks, his calls clipped, his warmth fading like a dying flame. My fingers trembled over my phone, dialing, my breath catching in my throat.

“Emilia,” Matteo answered, his voice low, breathy, like he’d been running. “It’s late. What’s up?”

“I miss you,” I said, voice soft, sinking deeper into the couch. “I just… need to hear your voice. When are you back?”

“Soon, amore,” he said, but his tone was off, strained, distant. “Busy here. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, heart clenching, a knot tightening in my gut. “Are you okay? You sound… out of breath.”

“Fine,” he snapped, too fast, irritation sharp. Just… training. Long day, Emilia.”

I swallowed, unease creeping like ice in my veins. “Okay. I love you, Matteo. I can’t wait—”

A moan cut through, sultry, sharp—a woman’s voice, followed by a giggle, low and teasing. I froze, my phone slipping to the bed, my heart slamming against my ribs. I grabbed it, voice quaking. “Matteo? What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” he barked, his voice hardening, defensive. “TV. Chill, Emilia, Jesus.”

“TV?” My voice rose, trembling with rage. “That was a woman! Who’s with you, Matteo?”

“No one!” he shouted, but another moan—“Oh, baby…”—sliced through, her laugh mocking, cruel. My blood turned to ice, hands clenching into fists, nails biting my palms.

“You’re lying!” I screamed, tears burning my eyes. “You’re with someone! How could you do this?”

“Emilia, stop!” Matteo’s voice was sharp, the woman’s laugh louder, taunting. “It’s nothing, okay? I needed release. You weren’t here, so what?"

“Release?” My voice broke, heart shattering like glass. “I’m your fiancée! You swore you loved me, Matteo!”

“I do!” he yelled, but it was empty, hollow. “It’s just physical, Emilia. It doesn’t mean sh*it.”

“It means everything!” I sobbed, hurling the phone, its crash against the wall echoing my pain. I collapsed, tears streaming, chest heaving, Matteo’s betrayal gutting me, unraveling my duty as a Romano. I was done, my heart in pieces.

My phone buzzed, Ariana's name flashing. I answered, voice raw, choking on sobs. “Sof, he… he cheated.”

“That f*cking bastard!” Ariana's voice was pure venom, fierce and loyal. I’m coming over, Em. We’re going out. No crying over that scum, you hear me?”

“I can’t—” I started, voice shaking, but Ariana cut me off, her tone a whip.

“You will. Get dressed. Club. Now. Screw Matteo, he’s nothing.”

“Ariana, I'm a mess,” I whispered, wiping tears, my hands trembling. “I can’t face people.”

“You’re a Romano,” she snapped, her voice fierce. “You don’t hide. You make him regret it. I’ll be there in ten. Black dress, Em, show him what he lost.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see, dragging myself up, resolve hardening. “Okay. I’m in.”

The club throbbed with bass, neon lights flashing, bodies writhing under strobes. I leaned against the bar, my black dress hugging my curves, face flushed with tequila and rage, the liquor burning my throat. Ariana, fierce in red, shoved another shot into my hand, her eyes blazing. “Drink, Em. Burn his memory out, every last piece.”

I slammed it back, the burn feeding my fury, my head buzzing. “He said it was nothing, Ari. Nothing! After everything we’ve been through!”

“He’s trash,” Sofia snapped, slamming her own shot, eyes scanning the crowd. “You’re Emilia Romano, Em. Make him choke on his mistake.”

“You’re right,” I said, voice hard, another shot down, my anger a live wire. “He doesn’t get to break me. Not tonight.”

Ariana grinned fiercely. “That’s my girl. Let’s own this place.”

My gaze drifted, rage crackling, when a chill hit my spine.

Across the VIP section, a man stared, tall, muscled, in a tailored black suit, his ice-blue eyes locked on me, cold and predatory. His chiseled face was familiar, but my tequila-fogged mind couldn’t place him. My breath caught, body flushing, a mix of fear and heat I hated myself for feeling.

“Who’s that?” I whispered, nudging Ariana, her voice unsteady, my heart racing.

Ariana glanced, whistling low. “Viktor Volkov. Guy owns the room, Em. I mean, look at him…power in every step.”

He did. Men avoided his gaze, women stared, but he ignored them, his eyes pinning mine, gleaming with recognition, as if he’d been hunting me. My heart pounded, thrill battling fear. I knew him—from a photo in Papa’s study, a Bratva threat—but Matteo’s moans drowned the warning, pulling me toward danger.

“Em, he’s moving,” Ariana hissed, gripping my arm, whispering, “He’s dangerous, Em. You don’t want his attention.”

“I’m sure,” I lied, voice trembling, shaking her off as he approached, his stride deliberate, every step a claim. He stopped close, his scent—leather, smoke—overwhelming, towering over me, his presence a storm.

“You don’t belong here, krasavitsa,” he said, his voice low, Russian-accented, cold as steel, sending shivers through me. “A woman like you is wasted on this filth.”

My chin lifted, defiance sparking despite my trembling hands. “And who are you to say where I belong?”

His smirk was icy, eyes raking me, stripping me bare. “Viktor,” he said, no last name, gaze unrelenting. “And you’re Emilia Romano. I know your kind.”

My breath hitched, fear spiking. How did he know my name? But Matteo’s moans roared in my mind, pushing me to recklessness. “You don’t know me,” I snapped, voice sharp. “And I’m not here for you.”

“Yet here I am,” he said, stepping closer, his heat searing me. “Dance with me.” His hand grazed my wrist, firm, possessive, a jolt shooting through my body.

“No,” I said, my voice faltering, my body drawn to his command. Sofia’s warning burned, but my fury screamed louder.

“One dance,” Viktor growled, pulling me to the dance floor, the crowd parting for him like water. I followed, heart pounding, skin flushed, my mind screaming to run but my feet moving anyway.

The music slowed, sultry, his hands gripping my waist, yanking me against his hard frame, eyes locked on mine. “You’re angry,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear, his voice cold but electrifying. I can taste it. Let it go, krasavitsa.”

“Don’t call me that,” I hissed, clutching his shoulders, moving with him, our bodies pressed tight, heat igniting against my will. “You don’t know my pain.”

“I know your betrayal,” he said, grip tightening, hips guiding mine, his touch a claim. “Your man’s a fool. I’d chain you to me.”

My breath caught, Matteo’s betrayal fueling my recklessness. “You don’t know him,” I said, voice trembling, his lips grazing my neck, sparking a fire I hated.

“I don’t need to,” he growled, hand sliding lower, possessive, voice ice. “You’re mine tonight.” His teeth nipped my earlobe, a shiver rocking me.

“Stop,” I gasped, my body betraying me, pressing closer, hands roaming his chest, feeling his power. “This is wrong.”

“Is it?” His hand cupped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his, eyes ruthless. “You want me. Say it.”

“No,” I lied, voice shaking, body arching, lips parting, craving him. His smirk was cold, victorious, as he leaned in, breathing hot.

“Liar,” he snarled, lips crashing into mine, rough, devouring, stealing my breath. I moaned into his mouth, fisting his shirt, kissing him back with desperate fury, my anger at Matteo pouring into him. His tongue claimed mine, hands gripping my hips, pulling me tight, his arousal hard against my thighs.

The club vanished, music a pulse, as Viktor broke the kiss, voice a growl. “Come with me.” He dragged me through the crowd, up a private staircase, to a shadowed room of leather and steel, slamming the door.

“Viktor, wait—” My voice trembled, but he pinned me against the wall, his body caging mine, eyes burning with cold hunger.

“No waiting,” he said, his voice raw, ruthless. You want to forget him? I’ll f*cking erase him.” His hand tore at my dress, ripping the strap, exposing my skin, his lips on my throat, biting hard, drawing a gasp. His fingers dug into my thighs, lifting me, my legs wrapping around him, the friction sparking heat.

I had a feeling he meant every word.

“This is crazy,” I panted, pushing his chest, but my body arched, needing him, shame and desire warring. “I don’t know you.”

“You know this,” he growled, hand sliding between my thighs, rough, teasing, finding my wetness, a dark chuckle escaping. “You’re soaked for me, krasavitsa.” His lips claimed mine again, brutal, his fingers relentless, pushing me toward the edge.

“Viktor!” I cried, clawing his back, nails digging, trembling under his assault. “Please—”

“Beg,” he snarled, voice cold, eyes locked on mine, his touch unyielding, driving me wild. “Say you’re mine.”

“No,” I gasped, hips rocking against him, betraying me, my moans filling the room. His laugh was dark, tearing my dress further, baring me to him, lips on my chest, sucking, biting, marking me as his.

“You’re mine,” he growled, shoving me onto a leather couch, his body over mine, suit jacket gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing hard muscle. He yanked my legs apart, fingers rough, relentless, pushing me higher, my cries echoing. “Say it, Emilia.”

“F*ck you viktor” I sobbed, pulling him closer, body arching, desperate, as he stripped me bare, his touch raw, possessive. “Just… do it.”

He didn’t hesitate, belt clinking, his body claiming mine in one brutal thrust, a snarl escaping him. I screamed, nails raking his back, pain and pleasure shattering me. He moved hard, fast, each thrust a punishment, a possession, his eyes cold, ruthless, never leaving mine. “You feel that?” he growled, hand gripping my throat, not choking, but possessive. “No one else does this to you.”

“Viktor!” I cried, trembling, sweat slicking my skin, my world narrowing to him—his heat, his power, his dominance.

He drove me higher, relentless, my moans desperate, body clenching, shattering around him in a wave of raw release. He didn’t stop, thrust harder, drawing out my cries, his own release, a low growl, his grip bruising.

When it was over, Viktor pulled back, his face a cold mask, adjusting his shirt like nothing had happened. “Go home, krasavitsa,” he said, voice flat, ruthless. “This was nothing.”

I lay there, trembling, dressed in tatters, body aching, shame flooding me like a tidal wave. I’d wanted to erase Matteo, but I’d given myself to a monster, his power searing my soul. I stood, shaky, clutching my dress, and fled, his icy gaze burning my back.

The memory faded, Volkov’s note in my hand, his threat real, my room dark, breath ragged. That night with Volkov was my rebellion, my ruin, and now my child was his, a secret sparking war. My hand clutched my stomach, my voice a raw whisper. “I’ll protect you.”

Tears fell, my resolve hardening. I’d face Volkov, fight for my child, no matter the cost, even if it meant burning everything down.

The war's edge

I crouched behind a marble pillar in the foyer, my heart hammering, my bruised cheek throbbing from Papa’s slap. Volkov’s note, the warehouse attack, the three capos’ severed fingers, haunted me, each imagining a knife in my gut. My hand clutched my stomach, shielding my unborn child—his child—as fear choked me, my breath shallow.

Volkov, the monster who killed my mother, had stormed our estate uninvited, his audacity spitting in Papa’s honor. I’d slipped from my room, drawn to the chaos, needing to know his next move, my pulse racing like a war drum.

“Stronzo!” Papa’s voice thundered from the study, doors flung wide as he faced Volkov, his gun gleaming in his hand. “You crashed my gates, defiled my house after butchering my men? I’ll gut you where you stand!”

Volkov’s smirk was ice, his ice-blue eyes scanning Papa, Luca, Marco, Matteo, and the capos bristling with guns, their faces tight with rage. “Paolo’s blood was a warning, Romano,” he said, voice low, lethal, each word a blade. “You cage what’s mine. Emilia. My child grows in her. Hand her over, or I will paint this estate red.”

My breath seized, body trembling, a sob catching in my throat. That night, my fury at Matteo’s betrayal chained me to this devil, and I hated myself for it. How did he know about my child? My hands shook, fear drowning me, his cold gaze seeming to pierce the shadows where I hid, like he could sense my heartbeat.

“Hand her over?” Papa laughed, a snarl, stepping closer, gun trained on Volkov’s heart. “You raped my daughter, murdered my Sofia, and now you demand her? Vaffanculo, Volkov! I’ll burn your Bratva to ash before I let you touch her!”

Volkov didn’t blink, his voice a blade, dripping with menace. “Your Sofia was a pawn, caught in your pathetic war. Your men butchered my daughter Katya, Anya’s twin, my blood, in revenge. Emilia’s child is mine, and I take what’s mine, Romano. Think your little family can stand against me? My Bratva will crush you like roaches.”

“You dare threaten me?” Papa roared, his gun shaking, capos cocking weapons, the room a spark of chaos. “You’re a dead man, Volkov! You’ll never touch my daughter!”

Volkov’s eyes narrowed, his voice as cold as a grave. “I don’t ask, Romano. I’m taking Emilia, with or without your blessing. Defy me, and I unleash hell. Your sons, your capos, your legacy—gone. I’ll drag Emilia from your ashes myself.”

My heart seized, hand clutching my stomach, his threat a noose tightening. His Bratva’s power was legend, unmatched even by the strongest Italian families. Mama’s death, his doing, fueled my hatred, but his words shook me—war would kill them all. His voice echoed that night—“You’re mine, krasavitsa,”—and my knees nearly buckled.

“You’re a butcher, Volkov!” Matteo bellowed, lunging, fist raised, his face red with rage, but Marco yanked him back, cursing. “You ruined her, you figlio di puttana! She’s mine!”

Volkov’s gaze flicked to Matteo, a sneer curling his lip.

“Yours? You drove her to my bed, DeSantis. You’re a worm, not a man. Step up, and I snap your neck like a twig.”

“Try it!” Matteo spat, struggling against Marco, his voice a growl. “I’ll kill you for touching her!”

“Enough!” Papa shouted, his voice a whip, gun steady on Volkov, his eyes blazing. “You want Emilia? You’ll choke on your own blood first! We fight, every last man, for our honor!”

Volkov’s laugh was low, chilling, his soldiers tensing, guns raised, their eyes cold. “Honor? You’re a dying breed, Romano. One week. Deliver Emilia to me, or I will erase your name from this earth.” He turned, coat swirling, his men backing away, eyes never leaving us.

The doors slammed, his convoy roaring into the night, leaving dread thick in the air.

I stumbled back, breathing ragged. Volkov’s cold eyes burned into my mind, his threat a weight I couldn’t shake. I couldn’t let my family face that war. My child, my mistake, brought this hell. I had to act, or we’d all be dead.

The study was a storm, Papa at the desk, his face a furnace, capos and family—Luca, Marco, Matteo, and others—packed tight, their voices a roar.

I hovered at the door, my gown torn from yesterday’s chaos, hand on my stomach, fear and resolve warring in my chest, my heart pounding.

“Volkov’s declared war!” Papa bellowed, slamming his fist, glasses rattling on the desk. “He demanded Emilia, claims her bastardo child! We don’t kneel to that dog! Arm every man, fortify the estate. We fight to the last!”

“Fight?” Marco snapped, voice sharp, stepping forward. “The Bratva’s a f*cking tidal wave, Don! They outgun us, outman us! Paolo’s dead because of her!” He jabbed a finger toward the door, missing me, hidden behind it.

“Then we die for la famiglia!” Papa roared, eyes blazing, his voice shaking the room. “He killed Sofia, Mia Moglie! Giving him Emilia is betraying her blood, betraying everything we are!”

Matteo’s voice was poison, fists clenched, his face twisted. “She’s a traditore! She f*cked that stronzo, brought this curse on us! Let him take her, let them both rot for their sins!” (traitor).

“Enough!” Luca growled, shoving Matteo hard, his voice fierce. “That’s my sister you’re talking about! We don’t throw out family. We shield them, Matteo, you bastard!”

“Shield?” Matteo laughed, venomously, stepping into Luca’s face. “She’s his puttana now! You think she’ll fight for us when she’s warming her bed?”

Matteo’s “puttana” broke my silence, rage igniting. I stormed in, voice trembling but fierce, my hands shaking. “Stop it, all of you!”

The room froze, Papa’s glare lethal, his hand twitching for his gun, his eyes boring into me. “You dare, daughter?” he hissed, stepping close, voice low, deadly. “After your shame? Speak, or it’s your life, Emilia.”

“I heard Volkov,” I said, voice shaking, hands clutching my stomach, tears burning. His threat, his demand. I won’t let you die for my mistake. I’ll go to him… I’ll marry him.”

Gasps erupted, Matteo’s face twisting, his eyes wild.

“Pazza!” he shouted, lunging, Luca blocking him, fists ready. “You want that monster?"I knew you were a fucking slut, Emilia!”

“Shut up, Matteo!” I screamed, tears streaming, my body trembling, my voice raw. I hate him! That night was a mistake, my worst sin! He killed Mama, and I’ll make him bleed for it, I swear!”

“Bleed?” Papa roared, grabbing my arm, yanking me close, his voice a snarl, breath hot. “You think you can face that devil? He’ll see through you, rip you apart till you’re nothing!”

“I know he’s a beast, Papa!” I cried, wrenching freely, my voice raw, my chest heaving. “That’s why I’ll do this. Let me marry him, infiltrate his Bratva. I’ll earn his trust, gut his empire from within. For Mama. Per la famiglia, Papa, please!”

“Stupid!” Papa spat, face crimson, gun waving. “Volkov’s a serpent! You’ll die, and we’ll still burn for your foolishness!”

“She’s got a point,” Luca said, stepping forward, voice steady, eyes on Papa, his jaw tight. “We can’t win a war, Papa. Not against the Bratva. Emilia’s plan is our best shot. She’s a Romano, she’s sharp. We have to trust her.”

I looked at Luca, appreciating him. He was the only one who would understand where I was coming from. The rest were blinded by their hatred for the bratvas. But, it was obvious that we had no chance here. The bratvas were too strong, they outnumbered us in weapons, men and knowledge.

It was a dead end.

“Sharp?” Matteo sneered, shoving Luca, his voice dripping with hate. "She’s a traitor! She’ll spread her legs for him again and doom us all!”

“Enough, Matteo!” I shouted, hands shaking, facing him, my voice a blade. “I’m saving us! I hate Volkov, more than you’ll ever know. That night was your fault, your betrayal! I’ll destroy him, and I’ll come back to fix this.”

“You’ll fail,” Papa said, voice low, deadly, eyes piercing mine, gun still in hand. “Volkov’s no fool. You’ll be his toy, and we’ll pay for your weakness.”

“Then let me try,” I pleaded, tears falling, my voice fierce, my heart pounding. "Give me a chance to end this. I’ll make him trust me, I’ll tear him down. For Mama’s memory, for my child.”

Silence gripped the room, capos shifting, Luca nodding, his eyes steady. Marco’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, his gaze dark. Matteo’s eyes burned into me, his voice a hiss. “You’re his pawn, but you’ll crawl back to me, Emilia.”

“I’m not,” I said, my voice hard as steel, my hand on my stomach, meeting his glare. “I’m a Romano. I’ll hate him every breath, and I’ll win.”

Papa stared, face unreadable, then spoke, voice ice, gun lowering. “One year, Emilia. You have one year to crush Volkov. Fail, and you’re dead. Don’t you dare love that bastard. You’re still Matteo’s.”

“I won’t,” I vowed, trembling but firm, my voice steady despite the fear. “I’ll never love that monster. I’ll end him, and I’ll return.”

Matteo spat on the floor, his voice low, vicious. “You’ll fall for him. You’re weak, Emilia, always were.”

“F*ck you,” I snapped, stepping into his face, my hands shaking. “I’m stronger than you’ll ever be. Watch me prove it.”

Luca’s hand gripped my shoulder, voice low, steady. “You’re brave, sorella. We’ll stand by you. Make him suffer, Em. Don’t go easy.”

Papa nodded, eyes hard, his voice final. “One year to make that bastard pay for our blood. You leave tomorrow. Prepare.”

My heart pounded, body trembling as I left the study, hand on my stomach, my resolve like iron. Volkov thought he could own me, but I’d turn his strength against him. I’d enter his world, play his game, and burn his empire to the ground. For my child, for Mama, per la famiglia.

But as I stepped into the dark, Volkov’s cold voice echoed in my mind, fear whispering that I might not survive his shadow.