“Why?” Livia knelt down, her lips close to his ear. “Because you all destroyed my life.”
“I could have had everything. The Falcieri fortune, the status, the power.”
“But because of that damn Alessia, because of your stupid loyalty, I lost it all.”
“Silas is gone, the money’s gone, and my baby has no name.”
Her voice grew more and more hysterical.
“If I can’t have it, then no one can!”
“The Falcieri family is going to be destroyed with me!”
Caius tried to speak, but the drug had taken full effect. He could only lie there, helpless.
Livia struggled to drag him into a secret room deep inside the safe house.
It was filled with the family’s stockpile of munitions and explosives.
She placed the baby next to Caius.
“Now you can be together forever,” she muttered to herself. “A complete family.”
Then she took out a lighter and lit the fuse connected to the explosives.
“Goodbye, Caius,” she whispered. “Give Alessia my regards in hell.”
She turned and left the secret room, walking quickly toward the exit.
Behind her, sparks raced along the fuse.
Five minutes later, a massive explosion ripped through the night sky.
The entire safe house was instantly engulfed in flames.
Six months later, Paris,
I stood in a gallery at the Louvre, looking at the award plaque on the wall.
My “Phoenix Reborn” collection had won the International Design Grand Prize.
The collection I had created with the rubies from the Falcieri estate.
Beauty, born from ruins.
“Lady Ares,” Henri walked over. “Congratulations on the award. You deserve the honor.”
“Thank you.”
As I turned to leave, Henri spoke again.
“Ma’am, have you seen the news today?”
“What news?”
He handed me a newspaper.
The headline stopped me cold:
“FALCIERI DON AND HEIR KILLED IN SUSPECTED MURDER–SUICIDE”
I quickly scanned the article.
An explosion at a building in the wharf district.
Police had found the body of Caius Falcieri in the wreckage.
The remains of a young woman and an infant were also discovered.
The preliminary investigation suggested it was a murder–suicide.
I finished reading and silently handed the paper back to Henri.
“Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked with concern.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice even. “It has nothing to do with me.”
I walked out of the Louvre and strolled along the banks of the Seine.
The sun was setting, casting a golden glow on the water.
In the distance, could hear the laughter of children.
I thought about the life I once dreamed of: a home, a family, a husband’s love. Now I was free. I could build it all myself.
I took out my phone and dialed the number for an adoption agency.
“Hello, I’d like to inquire about the process of adopting a child.”
The next day, I bought a house with a large garden on the outskirts of Antwerp.
The rose garden was filled with roses of every color.
Red, white, pink, yellow!
For love, purity, gentleness, and friendship.
But I planted no black roses. There would be no more room for death in my garden.
My world, from now on, would be one of light.
The past, all of it, had finally been reduced to ashes in that explosion.
