The gunshot shattered the night.
Iris pressed her hands against her ears, her small body trembling in the cupboard where her mother had hidden her. The sharp smell of blood filled the air, heavy and suffocating. Through the thin keyhole of the door, she saw shadows moving, boots hitting against the wooden floor. Her father's last cry echoed, then silence—cruel, deafening silence.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Every second stretched like eternity, her young mind clinging to one thought: Don't make a sound. Don't breathe. As her vision blurred into darkness.
Iris jolted awake, the horrifying echoes of that night still clawing at her chest. Sweat slicked her skin, her breath uneven. The mansion around her was silent, too silent, mocking her with its polished elegance.
Italy. A city that pretended to glitter but reeked of rot underneath.
She slipped from bed, her bare feet cold against the marble floor, and moved to the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't the terrified child in the cupboard anymore. Long raven hair fell across her shoulders, sharp cheekbones cast shadows in the dim light. Her eyes dark, unyielding, had long since lost their innocence and purity.
She dressed in silence, her movements precise. He footsteps echoe the silent mansion.
The corridors of the mansion stretched wide, lined with portraits of people who sat on the Throne before her. She stopped at a particular portrait and her eyes flicker with emotion for a second.
She was bowed to by some men who walked by, a respect that didn't faze her; a gesture that no longer mattered, but will be given anyway.
"Iris," a voice called softly as she descended the stairs.
Mia, her sister, leaned against the banister with a mischievous smile. Her red hair glowed in the dim chandelier light, and her eyes held that spark of reckless curiosity Iris had never been able to tame. Her eyes the only living remembrance of their mother.
"You look like hell," Mia pointed out.
"Nightmares," Iris muttered, adjusting her jacket.
"They never stop, do they?"
"No." Iris's tone cut the air, final and heavy.
Mia sighed, but didn't push. She never did, but will if she wants to.
The scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Paolo, her cousin, sat at the table with papers spread in front of him, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His boyish features carried the weight of a man far older.
"You didn't sleep," he said without looking up.
"Neither did you," Iris replied, sliding into the seat opposite him.
There were dark circle around his eyes a clear proff he haven't been sleeping well.
He pushed one of the papers toward her—a ledger, filled with numbers, shipments, coded notes. Evidence of the empire they had inherited and twisted into a weapon.
The Salvatore Empire is as old as the city of italy itself . A mafia empire rule by generations. They're known for their wealth and power.
Divided into two division the Salvatore Group; which I the legitimate business and Salvatore Empire; which is the underworld business.
The legitimate business was handled by Paolo, while the latter was ruled by her.
"The docks are clear," Paolo said. "But there's been chatter. Someone's moving pieces behind our backs."
Her fingers tapped against the table. "Delando?"
"Most likely."
She glanced over at Mia, still debating if to tell her or not of her departure to Chicago.
"Still brooding?" Mia's voice cut through again as she strolled in, grabbing a croissant.
"still not cutting fats?" Iris shot back without glancing up.
Mia smirked through stuffed mouth"Touché."
Their banter was a thin veil, one that couldn't hide the truth. They all lived with the same fire eating away at them, each day pushing them closer to the edge. But behind that fire there lie a deep love for each other.
The sound of the front doors opening drew Iris's attention. Footsteps echoed down the hall, steady and deliberate.
Diego entered the room, his broad frame filling the doorway. His presence commanded silence. He didn't waste time on pleasantries—he never did. His dark eyes found hers, and the weight of what he carried was clear before he even spoke.
"We found them."
Mia and Paolo gave each other a look, That of fear; not for themselves, but the perpetrators. The fate that awaits them is already known.
The room was pin-drop silent. Silence that a knife could slice through, igniting something deep in Iris's chest.
Her heart hammered once, then steadied into steel.
Finally, after all the months of searching. the shadows had given her a name.
The image of her lifeless uncle flashed through her memory.
she gripped the fork in her hand so hard it might break.
A sarcastic Laughter erupted the silent table and switch to the deadily glare.
She was the fire, burning strongly.
"Where are they?" She said softly, no matching with the rage in her.
"In the dungeon"