Page 18 of Blood Heir

I swallow hard and look at him again, the question already forming in my mind. But I’m not ready for the answer. Still, I ask, the words slipping out of me with barely any control. “Who are you?” I ask him.

“I am your guardian,” he answers, “and your subordinate at the same time.”

I scan him carefully. He’s a priest, but he feels like he belongs to this crazy world. “Are you really a priest or part of them?”

He nods. “Both, my child. Just like you, I was born into a bloodstained clan. This is my way of paying penance, by giving my life to God.”

I inhale and ask again, “Is it true I’m orphaned?”

The world pauses for a second. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the silence pressing down on me.

He breathes in slowly, his eyes flickering to the distant guards once more before he turns his full attention back to me.

“You are the daughter of Gaspare D’Angelis, Fioretta,” he says, his voice thick with reverence. “A once-powerful Mafia don. He adopted you from an orphanage when you were young, raised you in partial isolation from the syndicate to protect you from the blood politics. He loved you, but he couldn’t let you be involved in that life.”

I blink, the words sinking in. Adopted. Mafia. It all feels like a blur—too much for my mind to process at once.

He continues, his voice quiet but full of sadness. “Your father had you educated in France and Switzerland—diplomacy,philosophy, fine arts. He wanted you to have a life beyond this world, Fioretta. But when the family began to fracture, when the syndicate grew unstable, you were brought back here.”

I feel a rush of emotions, like the world is shifting beneath my feet. My thoughts start to churn, and panic creeps up my throat.

“But what about my mother?” I ask before I can stop myself, my voice sounding small. “Where is she? Why don’t I remember her?”

Brother Stefano takes a slow breath, his eyes heavy with the weight of the words he’s about to say. He gazes at me for a moment, almost like he’s deciding how much to share.

“There was no mother in the picture,” he says softly, his voice full of gentleness. “It was just your father.”

I blink, the words landing like stones. No mother? That emptiness in me deepens at his confession. I always thought there was something more, something warm I was supposed to remember. But all I can grasp is the cold absence of her, the silence where I expected to find love.

“Friends?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly, unsure why I’m even asking.

Brother Stefano sighs, his gaze distant. “Those who walk this path walk alone.”

I don’t understand what he means, but his words settle inside me like sand in a jar—shifting but never fully settling. I feel the ache that’s been clawing at my chest grow. It’s not just confusion anymore. It’s something else, something deeper. Pain, though I don’t know what to call it.

I touch my chest, pressing my hand to the spot where it feels like something inside me has cracked open. There’s a sharp pressure, an unfamiliar sting that I can’t describe. It’s not just physical; it’s emotional. It’s loneliness, I think. Loss, though I still don’t fully understand what it means.

“Did my father love me?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

Brother Stefano’s expression softens, like he’s carrying a heavy burden with him. He looks at me, his gaze filled with something between sorrow and compassion. “He was a flawed man,” he says quietly, “but you were the light of his life.”

I don’t know if I can believe him. I don’t know if I want to. Flawed man—those words echo in my head—but you were the light. His light? Or just the light in a dark world he couldn’t escape from?

I look around the garden, suddenly feeling the weight of everything pressing on me. The beautiful villa. The guards watching from the corners. Serevin. My husband.

My hand shifts slightly, and my fingers curl instinctively around the wedding ring on my finger. It’s cold against my skin, and the chill creeps through me. I look down at it, the golden band feeling like a foreign object. Not mine.

I don’t know how long I stare at it before I speak again. “My husband,” I say, almost to myself, the question soft but heavy. “He…he doesn’t love me, does he?”

Brother Stefano’s eyes flick to mine, and in that fleeting moment, I see the answer in the quiet tension between us. There’s no word. No direct response. But his eyes—their sadness, their acknowledgment—tell me everything I need to know.

I was married to this man for a lot of reasons. Love wasn’t one of them.

I blink away the sudden tears that sting the back of my eyes, the wetness threatening to spill over.

I feel too much. I feel everything. It’s as though the floodgates have opened, and I can’t stop the rising tide of emotions.

I try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t work. I don’t have control over any of this. I don’t know who I am, or who he is to me, or who I was before.

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