Page 51 of Blood Heir

“You’re such a child, Emilia,” he says softly, shaking his head. “You always knew how this world worked. Don’t grow a conscience now.”

He strides toward the door, his shoes clicking sharply against the floor. As he disappears down the stairs, I’m left panting, chest heaving. My head spins. My fingers clutch the edge of the dresser for support.

And suddenly, the memory floods back—so vivid, so sharp I almost taste it.

We’re back in that large room. The special room.

The adults—our parents—are downstairs, locked in their endless mafia meetings, deciding who would live, who would die, who would marry whom. And we sat upstairs, left to entertain ourselves.

I remember watching her then. Fioretta.

She was sitting on the edge of the long velvet bench, her posture too straight, like always. Her little white dress pristine, hands folded neatly on her lap, she was trying so hard not to cry, even though the tears were brimming in her eyes.

Monte had just spilled an entire glass of red wine across her lap.

“Oops,” Gustavo snorted. “Clumsy much?”

Fioretta's lips trembled, but she didn’t say a word. She just dabbed at the stain with the edge of the tablecloth, her cheeks pink with humiliation.

I had laughed. I couldn’t help it. Watching her stand there, so stiff, so proper—it was funny then. She always thought she was better than us.

Gustavo circled her like a shark, leaning in close. His voice had that teasing edge. “You really think any of us want you here? You’re only here because your father begged for scraps.”

Still nothing from her. Silent. Meek.

But then Gustavo crossed a line.

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up. And before any of us could blink, he kissed her—hard.

The moment he pulled back, she slapped him.

It echoed across the room.

For a breath, none of us moved.

Then Gustavo’s face darkened. His hand shot out.

The first slap was loud. She staggered but didn’t fall.

The second, sharper.

The third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

By the time he was done, her face was flushed and swollen, but she still didn’t cry. She stood there, holding her ground like some broken little doll who refused to fall apart in front of us.

And even then—even then—she didn’t tell anyone.

No one told her father. No one told anyone. She just stayed quiet, like she always did.

“I am so fucked,” I hiss under my breath, my chest heaving as panic claws at my throat.

The pill bottle trembles in my hand. My gaze darts to the label: Memory Suppressant—2mg.

No, no, no.

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