Chapter 2 THE SOFT SIDE OF STEEL

Most people think power is loud.

It isn't.

It's quiet. Predictable. Wrapped in habit.

I'm awake at six, no alarms. My body just jerks awake, it always knows. I mean killing people would do that to you I guess.

Silk sheets, cold floors, the ache of sleep abandoned. The villa is silent at that hour, just the soft flutter of curtains brushing against open windows.

I stretch. Not out of luxury, but necessity. I have to be sharp, fast, and ready. It's the only way one would survive in our world.

The espresso machine clicks on before I reach the kitchen, I smile at the thought. Martha, our housekeeper, is old school. She believes women shouldn't drink their coffee black or eat alone. I do both anyway, and she finds that pretty annoying, she knows I don't care though.

She finds me barefoot, leaning on the marble counter, sipping the black bitter coffee and she frowns quickly, I chuckle quietly, she still doesn't approve.

"For chrissakes" she mutters, eyes disapproving. "Put something on your feet. You'll catch a cold."

I smile warmly at her. "Good morning, Martha." Martha knows she's one of the people who get to see my other side, so she uses it to her advantage.

She pours warm milk into her own tiny cup, she has had that cup since I was little. I wonder what attachment she has to it. She drinks the milk like she is blessing each sip, who knows? She actually might be. Martha is too much of a saint, she reminds of my mother.

"Is your father out?"

"Since before dawn," I scoff as I reply. "Some call with Naples." It would actually be shocking if dad was home.

She hums at my reply, she knows better than to ask questions. She never does.

By seven-ish, I'm in the courtyard with my trainer, Dimitri. He's ex-military, no-nonsense. He is the kind of person no one would want to mess with, we don't exchange words as we fight, our bodies usually understand what we need.

"You're weak today." he says, dodging a blow from me. "Trouble sleeping?"

"Do we ever truly sleep, Dimitri?"

He grunts. That's as close to a laugh as he gets. Like I said, no-nonsense.

---

After training, I shower and dress in silence. I wear fitted trousers, a high-neck blouse, and soft gray cashmere. My clothes are supposed to showcase some kind of superiority according to Don Moretti, make people know and feel like I'm the boss. His words, not mine.

Two hours later, I meet with Cara, the one person I tolerate in the whole of humankind, literally.

My best friend since we were eleven. She once punched a boy in the face for calling me a freak after I cried during a school play. I hadn't told anyone it was the anniversary of my mother's death. Cara just knew, it's like she can read me inside out.

Now she runs a boutique flower shop downtown. All flowery and girlish. You would think someone so good with petals and sweet with everyone couldn't handle blood, but she's been by my side through the worst of it. And sometimes? She could be worse than me.

She greets me with a hug that smells very similar to lilies and lavender.

"You do look tired," she says, squinting. "Rough night?"

Why does everyone keep saying that?

"Something like that." I glance at a bouquet of yellow sunflowers on the counter. "Those are new."

"Imported from France. I knew you'd like them."

I do, they are my favourite. I'd never admit that to anyone though, why would a Mafia queen like sunflowers? It'd definitely be seen as a weakness.

We sit at the back, where the windows are draped and the world feels softer. She pours us lemon tea from her grandmother's porcelain pot. It's cracked in one corner. Cara refuses to replace it, it suddenly reminds me of Martha's little cup. It makes me wonder how long people hold onto things before they finally let go.

"Because it's real," she told me once. "Beautiful and broken things are worth more, as long as you don't try to fix them."

Sometimes, I feel like she's indirectly referring to me. I'm all shades of broken aren't I?

---

It's hard to explain what someone like me does after breakfast.

Most people assume it's car chases and body drops. I mean that's what the movies portray, I wouldn't blame them.

Truth is, I spend two hours reviewing shipment logs, cross-checking port activity, and reviewing security footage from our warehouses, every freaking day. In our world? There's nothing like taking a break. One slip up? And you're done for. It's like our enemies are always watching one way or the other. Spies here and there, they never get tired or bored.

As I leave Cara's flower shop, I take a turn and go to one of my favourite places, my mom's legacy, a school she had built for orphaned children.

Not some front for laundering cash, but a real place with real children. My mother started it before she died. A private initiative in the outskirts... music, languages, therapy for orphaned kids affected by organized crime. It was her way of giving something back to the city our family took so much from. She always said it lessened the guilt, it took away some kind of burden off her shoulders. I began to see what she meant when she passed. It's like some kind of space where no one judges me. I fund it quietly, no Moretti logo, no press. Just Alessia.

The headmistress is a retired nun named Sister Angela. She once threatened to slap my father with a ruler when he asked if the chapel could be turned into storage space, I burst into laughter at the memory of that. Only Sister Angela would say that to a Mafia Don.

She kisses both my cheeks when I walk in.

"Your mother would be proud," she says every time.

And every time, it stings, it's like a slap of reality on my face and somehow there's always guilt.

There's a girl here, Aurora. She's just nine, her parents were killed in a crossfire in Turin. She hasn't spoken in six months.

She draws very beautifully though. It's how she expresses herself.

She always gives me a picture of her drawings anytime I visit. Today she handed me a picture of a lioness standing in a field of broken glass.

"It's you," Sister Angela whispers. "She only draws things that feel safe."

I kneel and hug her. I feel her small body tense, then soften. She doesn't speak, she doesn't always have to. She understands me, and I understand her.

Sometimes softness is louder than words.

By four, I'm back at the villa, reviewing intel with Luca. He wants to go after the Caprini family immediately. Clearly, he has learnt nothing from me, I shake my head in disappointment.

"We should hit their Milan base. Make a statement."

I tilt my head. "You think statements keep people loyal?"

"They keep them scared."

I sip my wine. "Fear fades. Respect sticks."

He shrugs. "We're different." What did you think, Mister? That's why I lead and you follow.

---

After going over Intel with Luca, I visited my mother's garden. The one she planted herself, every flower handpicked. Italian jasmine, bleeding hearts, night-blooming cereus, lilies.

She used to say it bloomed only when no one was watching.

She died when I was twelve.

Car accident, according to the reports and the police. I've never asked questions. Two reasons: one, I'm afraid I won't like the answers, secondly, who really wants to hear about the death of their favourite parent? That'd just mean more nightmares. I already have enough as it is.

She was gentle in a world that was full of chaos, she always saw the good in everyone. It's why she married my father.

I still remember how she brushed my hair at night. Her nails painted the same dusty rose she wore on her lips. She sang in French,a language she was so fluent in lulling me to sleep with her lullabies. It hurts that I miss her so much.

Sometimes I hear her voice speak to me in my sleep, her sweet gentle voice.

You are not your father's child, Alessia.

You are mine.

And you are meant for something more.

At seven, I dress for dinner. No parties tonight, thank the heavens for that, drunk stupid rich people aren't really my thing. Just silence and a long table I eat alone. Peace, quiet.

I cut into roast lamb, chewing softly. Martha always knows what I need, I really don't know how.

As the younger maid cleans up behind me, I return to my suite. I kick off my heels and curl up with a book, old poetry, Italian translations of Neruda and Rilke. I read the words slowly, like I'm learning them for the first time.

There are no guns in poetry, no deals, no orders, no killings and definitely no bloodshed. Just love, longing and metaphor. I like that, I always have.

Sometimes I think about who I would've been if I weren't born into this name.

Would I still be trapped in a world where there's only one way to survive? Will I fall in love? Will I have children? Will I experience love like the poets write? I wonder what my life would have been like.

Sometimes I hate that I'll never know.