I roll under the bed to put some distance between us, buying myself time to think. A flash of light appears, and I realize he has turned on the room's lights.

Hidden beneath the bed, I watch his feet to gauge his position. I see them turned toward me on my left. I roll to my right and, in a swift motion, rise to my feet, yanking the bedside lamp from its socket and hurling it at him.

Caught off guard, he shields his face with his arms but doesn't stagger. I seize the moment to dash toward the desk and this time fling a chair at him. Still not fully recovered, he stumbles as the chair crashes into his head.

I grab the letter opener from the desk and charge at my assailant, intent on delivering a blow. With his back to me, I leap onto him, pressing the blade to his throat. He grabs my hands, delaying his execution, and in one powerful motion, slams me with all his weight against the wall behind us. My back cracks against the stone, and I let out a cry of pain. The impact forces me to drop my weapon, which clatters to the floor as I collapse under my own weight. Quickly regaining my composure, I refuse to give him time to retaliate.

Still on the ground, I spot the letter opener on the wooden floor and glance at the brute, who's ready to charge again. I lunge for the blade, but he grabs me by the waist and hurls me over his head, slamming me to the ground.

Wind knocked out of me from the impact, I take too long to recover, allowing him to straddle me with the letter opener now pressed against my throat. My heart races as the cold blade touches my skin.

Hands gripping his wrists, I muster all my strength to push him off balance, but he's far too heavy. So, I grab hold of his fingers, and with a quick, sharp motion, I snap two of them back. A sickening crack, followed by his screams, fills the room. Overwhelmed by pain, he drops the weapon, clutching his injured hand. I snatch it up and stab him in the left shoulder. My attack throws him off balance, and with a twist of my hips, I push him to the side.

Now seated, hand pressed against his wound, he glares at me, bloodshot eyes filled with rage, saliva sputtering with each labored breath.

I rush toward the bathroom, but I feel a hand grab my ankle, sending me crashing face-first to the floor. Lying flat on the ground, I twist around to face him and dodge an attack by rolling to my right. The letter opener, embedded in the floor, leaves my attacker momentarily stuck as he struggles to free it. I use this moment of immobility to act.

With my back to him, I grab a belt hanging from a hook in the bathroom and loop it around his neck. I pull with all my strength, bracing my feet against the floor. Instinctively, he grabs at the belt, trying to shake me off, but I hold on until I slip on the water overflowing from the bathtub.

Weakened by my strangling, my attacker collapses to the floor, coughing as he tries to catch his breath. I rush to the faucet to turn off the water, only to feel a hand seize the back of my neck, forcing my head into the water. I thrash and attempt to knee him in the groin but fail. Realizing my struggles are futile, I calm myself and focus on my breathing, knowing that panicking will only hasten my death.

I manage to slow my heartbeat, allowing me to make the decision to pull the plug and slide into the tub. With the water only reaching mid-thigh, I press my knee against the edge and push off, sliding fully into the tub. The move frees me from the brute's grasp. Drenched, I quickly stand and attack him. Grabbing his head, I drive my knee into it with brutal force, then hoist him up by the collar and punch him square in the face. To finish, I grab his head once more and, in one violent motion, smash it against the edge of the tub.

Completely dazed, he slumps unconscious. I climb out of the tub, now drained of water, and retrieve the letter opener. With a precise and brutal strike, I plunge it straight into his heart.

With a final gasp, a crimson stain slowly spreads across his shirt around the knife. The water on the floor mingles with his blood, staining the once-pristine white tiles of the bathroom a deep red.

Exhausted, I collapse against the bathtub, eyes fixed on this stranger whose first encounter with me would also be his last. The ringing of a phone snaps me back to reality. Unsure of how long I've been sitting there, staring at the corpse, panic grips me as I rush to answer.

"Yes ?" I say, breathless.

"May, it's Andrea. Am I interrupting ?"

"No, not at all," I lie, trying to mask my anxiety.

"I managed to reach Ezio's men. They're ready to meet you tomorrow. Will you be prepared ?"

"Perfect ! Yes, of course. I know how to convince them, but I'll need your and Andy's help first," I admit, glancing at the body lying in a pool of blood.

Carrying my burden in hand, with a knot in my stomach and anxiety in my chest, I step into the room where Ezio's men are gathered. Behind me, like shadows, Andy and Andrea follow, just as tense, though they try to hide it.

"Good morning, gentlemen," I greet them, trying to calm the storm raging inside me.

They all rise from their chairs to greet me in return, their voices merging into a chorus. I suppress a smile when I recognize a surprise guest, though not an unwelcome one, among the men. Sergio Bartoni, Paola's father, looks at me with pride, a faint smile on his lips.

I take a seat at the head of the table and carefully place my surprise box in front of me. Andrea and Andy sit on either side of the table, along with the seven other men.

"Alright, I know you're all busy, and your time is valuable, so I'll get straight to the point. If Andrea brought you here at my request, it's for one reason: to join forces with me as you once did with Ezio."

I can already see some of them tense up, leaning back in their chairs with arms crossed, while others remain impassive, curious to hear more.

"I want to avenge Ezio's death by wiping out the Sicilian Mafia. I want to kill each family, one by one, until they're nothing more than a distant memory."

I'm interrupted by the laughter of one man. I glare at him with a fierce look, my gaze severe. With hair the same color as the fire of fury his laughter ignites in me, he seems like one of those thick-headed brutes whose muscle mass outweighs their brain cells.

Far from intimidated, he challenges me with his emerald gaze.

"Did I say something funny ?" I snap.

"It's you who amuses me. You honestly think you're strong enough to annihilate the Sicilian Mafia? Do you really believe that taking down the families, if you even manage that, will stop others from rising up afterward?"

I give him a genuine smile.

"May I know your name first ?"

"Amadeo, ma'am."

"Dear Amadeo, when the brain dies, all the connections are affected. One by one, they shut down because they can't survive on their own. When the brain dies, the entire network collapses, no matter how hard some parts may try to survive or take the brain's place. They won't succeed because they lack its strength, skills, and capabilities. Without the brain, nothing and no one can claim to replace it. I won't deny that small gangs may exist, just as they do in every country, but they will never have the reach or power of the Mafia. And do you know why? Because the moment they realize that even the mighty Mafia could be reduced to ashes, despite its stature and importance, they'll know they'll never measure up. They'll prefer to stay in their place rather than lose their lives."

He scoffs, clearly skeptical of my response.

"Sorry, but I don't believe in you or your little revenge fantasy. You think you can walk in here in your high heels, with your pretty little backside and a smile, and we'll pledge allegiance to you just because you're Ezio's widow with grand dreams like some kid ? Hate to break it to you, but get your head out of the clouds and face reality—your dream is impossible."

I lower my head and smile at his words, which strike an oddly familiar chord within me. My mind flashes back ten years to when my parents spat the same kind of speech at me. Back then, music was the source of discord, but the same glimmer of doubt shone in their eyes before I left them for good. Time has passed, but that look hasn't aged. Only today is different; I have no desire to flee and prove them wrong—I'm determined to confront them head-on and leave with confident stares in my wake.

I lift my head and fix my gaze on each man in turn. Some side with Amadeo, while others remain undecided. Only Sergio's eyes are alight with a glimmer of hope and faith. Galvanized by his supportive smile, I continue:

"Of course, I didn't expect you to follow me without reservations. As Amadeo so aptly put it, my status as a widow gives me no legitimacy in your eyes. For the past year, I've been fighting against myself, pushing my mental and physical limits. I stayed in the shadows, training for my revenge. Andrea, whom you all know well, made sure that every last shred of humanity left my body so that when I face my enemies, I become nothing more than a machine focused on survival. Over the past year, I've worked to achieve excellence, to become formidable. I may not look it, but believe me, if an enemy stands in my way, I know how to deal with them."

My words are cut off by a round of applause, drowning out my voice.

"Is that what you were waiting for ?" Amadeo challenges, leaning forward on the table. "For us to applaud your journey ? To hand you a medal because you believe you've accomplished something extraordinary in a year ? Do you really think that getting your revenge will bring you happiness ? Do you even realize what this will entail ? The number of deaths, the violence that will reign ? Have you ever actually killed someone, or are you just feeding us pretty words ?"

"I'm not seeking happiness—just satisfaction," I respond, locking eyes with him, my expression as cold as stone, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the irritation he stirs within me.

I shift my gaze away from him and address the other men.

"Anyone else have doubts ?"

Some hands rise, while others remain still.

"Very well."

I open the box and place my first card on the table.