I’m in my office, scrolling through the day’s news. I do this religiously now, wondering if and when I might come across strides Aria might be making.
Just then, the phone rings. As per my experience, nothing good ever comes from calls this late into the night.
“Hello?” I ask.
It’s Nicolo, and he sounds like he’s in panic, his voice breathless as he tells me Warehouse 7 is burning. My men are dying. Someone has declared war.
My blood turns to ice.
“How many?” I demand, already moving, snatching my jacket from the back of my chair.
“At least four down,” Nicolo pants, the crackle of flames audible in the background. “They came out of nowhere and had military-grade equipment.”
“Fabrizio’s friends wanting revenge?” I wonder.
“No,” Nicolo says. “These weren’t street thugs with something to prove. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. They knew our security protocols. Our shipment schedule.”
I’m already in the garage, sliding behind the wheel of my Aston Martin.
“I’m on my way,” I say, ending the call.
The city streets blur past my windows as I push the car to its limits. Warehouse 7 houses our newest weapons shipment—Czech-made, worth millions, untraceable. Someone targeting it isn’t just making a statement.
They’re acquiring firepower.
My mind cycles through potential enemies as I weave through traffic. The Colombians, unhappy with our last negotiation? The Russians, always looking to expand their territory?
Some upstart gang hoping to make a name for themselves?
None of these possibilities settle right in my gut.
This feels personal.
Calculated.
A message meant specifically for me.
But in no world could it be her. Pulling something off at this scale? Impossible.
I shove that thought out of my mind.
I round the final corner, and the warehouse comes into view. The sight punches the air from my lungs.
The entire eastern side of the building has collapsed, steel beams twisted like melted plastic.
Flames lick the night sky, painting everything in hellish orange light. Black smoke billows upward, a dark column visible for miles.
Fire crews battle the blaze while my men secure the perimeter.
I slam the car to a stop and step out into chaos. The heat hits me first, a wall of blistering air that makes my skin tighten.
Then the smell—burning metal, melted plastic.
The sound is deafening—the roar of flames, shouted orders, sirens wailing in the distance.
Nicolo spots me and jogs over, his face streaked with soot, a gash across his forehead weeping blood down the side of his face.
“Boss,” he says, his voice raw from smoke. “We’ve contained the situation, but—”
“Are there more victims?” I ask again, my eyes scanning the ambulances where medics work frantically on prone bodies.
“Six confirmed dead,” he says grimly. “Four more critical. They hit us during shift change—maximum casualties.”
My hands clench into fists. “The shipment?”
“Gone. Every crate. They knew exactly what they were looking for and where to find it.”
“Security footage?”
“Disabled. Complete professional job. They knocked out our system thirty seconds before they breached. Whoever did this had inside information.”
“Could there be a traitor in my organization, or are our attacks genuinely this effective?”
Both thoughts burn hotter than the flames consuming my warehouse. I’ll find them. I’ll make them suffer.
“The men who died,” I say, “I want their families taken care of. Double the usual arrangement.”
Nicolo nods. “Already being handled.”
I survey the destruction again, my mind calculating losses, planning retaliation. This wasn’t just a theft—it was a carefully planned hit on our empire.
This was a message. A declaration.
“Boss,” Nicolo says, his voice dropping lower. “There’s something else.”
I turn to him, noting the hesitation in his eyes.
“They left something for you. Just outside the main entrance. A fireproof box.”
My pulse quickens. “Show me.”
He leads me around the burning building to where a small metal container sits on the ground, untouched by the flames. One of my security team stands guard over it, stepping aside as I approach.
“We checked it for explosives,” Nicolo assures me. “It’s clean. Just… a letter.”
I kneel down, flipping the latches on the box. Inside lies a single black envelope, the paper so dark it seems to absorb the firelight around it. I lift it, feeling its weight—expensive paper, heavy stock.
My fingers trace over the seal pressing into the thick wax—a crest I haven’t seen in twenty-five years but recognize instantly.
The DeLuca family crest.
Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach as I break the seal. Inside, a single card bears five words in elegant handwriting I would know anywhere:
This is only the beginning.
Aria’s handwriting. Aria’s threat. Aria’s declaration of war.
My pulse spikes. My vision bleeds at the edges. I’d known she was gathering allies, planning something—but with a rage so pure it feels like my blood might boil beneath my skin. She didn’t just run from me. She didn’t just hide. She struck first. She drew blood first.
My men. My weapons. My territory.
“Boss?” Nicolo’s voice seems to come from a great distance. “What is it?”
I hand him the card, watching his eyes widen as he makes the connection.
“Your wife?” he whispers, disbelief coloring his voice. “But how? She doesn’t have the resources, the manpower—”
“The DeLuca loyalists,” I cut him off. “They’ve rallied to her. To them, she’s not my wife. She’s Emilio DeLuca’s daughter.”
Understanding dawns in Nicolo’s eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “This is—”
“War,” I finish for him, tucking the note into my jacket pocket. “She’s not just defying me. She’s not just declaring war. She’s started it with the upper hand. She won this round.”
I turn to face the burning warehouse, the destruction that bears my wife’s signature.
“And your father?” Nicolo asks cautiously. “Salvatore will want to know about this.”
The question hangs in the air between us. My father, who hunts the DeLuca heirs without knowing one sleeps in his son’s bed. My father, who will kill Aria on sight if he discovers her true identity.
“My father doesn’t need to know yet,” I say, the decision crystallizing in my mind. “This is between Aria and me. For now.”
Nicolo nods, relief evident in his expression. He, like most of my inner circle, has always feared Salvatore’s volatile nature more than my calculated rage.
As he moves away to relay my orders, I remain fixed in place, watching my warehouse burn. The heat dries the sweat on my forehead, sears my lungs with each breath. I welcome the pain. Let it fuel what comes next.
I pull out the note again, running my thumb over her handwriting: This is only the beginning.
A promise. A challenge.
“You’ve made your move, Aria,” I murmur to the flames. “Now watch mine.”
She thinks she knows what war with a Bianchi means, but she’s about to learn that I fight very differently than my father.
I will take back what’s mine. Every weapon. Every territory. And most importantly, the woman who dared to challenge me.
Let her play at being a DeLuca queen. I’ll remind her what it means to be a Bianchi wife.
