Page 4 of Power
“Finally,” I mutter.
I’ve been gone too long. Too many months were spent hiding, building, and preparing. The last time I was here, it wasto plan. Now, it’s time to make my mark. My name will be on everything in this city, whether they like it or not.
***
I pull up to the estate, the heavy iron gates parting as I drive through. The place I acquired while I had saved enough back in Venice.
I step out and the cold air bites at my skin. The workers are already there, going about their business like they don’t even realize who I am. That needs to change. I don’t give a damn about the dust on the floors, or the cracks in the walls. Everything will be perfect.
I make my way inside and bark orders at the housekeeper as she stumbles to meet me.
“Mr. Zaytsev.....I’m sorry, Mr. Bellini, it’s good to have you here with us in the flesh.” She sounds genuine enough, but I can see the unease in her eyes.
She’s still thinking of the name change—of who I was before. I don’t give a shit about that anymore. The name Dario Bellini? It’s mine now.
“Thank you, Dannika. Trust you have everything in place like I asked?”
“Yes sir, the house has been well taken care of and updated to the decor you asked for and filled with the necessary staff that have been thoroughly examined.”
“Good.”
I let my fingers trail over the polished wood of the staircase. I didn’t really need a new identity, but it was necessary for the moves I had to make. How else would I have ensured my enemies never saw me coming?
It was never about becoming someone else—it was about becoming someone better. Someone who hadn’t lived the life I had. Someone who refused to repeat the pattern his fucked upancestors set. The new name, the new nationality—it was all part of the bigger plan. The one I spent years building, slowly and painfully.
I came from nothing and everything I’ve built is from the ground up. This place? I look around the estate. This is mine now. They’ll remember Bellini.
The housekeeper looks at me like I’ve sprouted horns. But it doesn’t faze me. I don’t need her approval. Hell, I don’t need anyone’s approval.
I don’t waste time and I get straight to business—calling contractors, checking on the workers. Making sure everything’s in place. Every inch of what I build here is a reflection of who I am now. There’s no room for mistakes. My mole in the police department has done his job. These documents should give me an edge. Once I get my hands on the right people, I’ll have this city by the throat.
I’ll use everything I have to burn anyone who dares stand in my way.
I’m not here just to rebuild my empire. I’m here to destroy the one who thought he could destroy me.
Chapter 2
Vittoria
I need a break. A real one and not some half-hearted attempt at zoning out while pretending I’m fine. So, I end up at a dive bar in a part of town I usually avoid. It's the kind of place where the walls are stained and the floor is sticky, where nobody cares to look at you unless you’re too drunk to stand.
From what I heard from my maid, it is owned by the D’Angelo family, a local mafia crew that’s been quietly pulling strings in this neighborhood for decades. This dive bar used to be tucked in a crumbling industrial zone and was once just a forgotten hole in the wall. But after the D’Angelos took over in the late ‘90s, it became a front for their operations.
It’s the kind of place my husband would never step foot in. He'd say it’s beneath us—full of riffraff, washed-up drunks, and people who’ve made bad choices. And maybe that’s what makes it perfect.
I’m here to breathe. To forget. For just a second, I want to not be me—not the girl always on edge, always careful, always worried. And a few drinks might help with that. At least for tonight.
The place is half-empty, except for a couple of old men hunched over the bar, talking about the good old days, and a few groups of people pretending they’re not too lonely.
I sit down at the far end of the bar, away from the noise. My fingers tap restlessly on the counter.
The bartender comes over with a small, rehearsed smile and winks at me. She has a thick accent—not Italian, something rougher, maybe Polish. Her eye makeup is just as heavy as herstare, but she doesn’t ask what I want. She just pours a whiskey and slides it across the counter like she already knows why I’m here. I nod, grateful, and toss it back in one go. It burns, but it’s the right kind of burn.
This is the kind of place my husband wouldn’t look for me in. But I also wouldn’t be here if not for him. If not for what he asked me to do.
That’s when he walks in.
I don’t know what I expect when I look toward the door, but he—this man who feels like he should only exist in fantasy—shatters every expectation.
