chapter one

                                  

Lucia

He told me those five words I detest hearing in a relationship—it marked the end of a beautiful beginning: You deserve a better person. I stand before my eight-month relationship boyfriend, and he spills those detestable words to me. Thoughts race through my mind, questioning his intentions. Is he admitting he’s not good enough, or is he expressing deep love to improve for me? I battle with these thoughts, wondering if he sees himself as flawed compared to my perceived angelic nature.

You deserve a better person.

 I find the words meaningless. If there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with him, aren’t we a match? I contemplate waiting for him to grow into a better person if that’s the issue. Who else deserves him if not me? And if the problem is him becoming a better person, who else deserves me if not him, my source of peace?

Standing in a parking lot, reading his eyes without the courtesy of a café seat, it becomes evident he’s ending our relationship. I ponder what went wrong, questioning if I breached some unspoken relationship code or if another girl is in the picture.

Maybe my clinginess and constant complaints overwhelmed him—the seventy missed calls a week, fifteen times a day. I visited him every weekend, showing care perhaps beyond what he desired. He lacks the courage to straightforwardly end things, leaving me in turmoil to decipher his unspoken reasons.

As I freeze, processing his words, he says more things—details my mind struggles to comprehend in the hellish reality I’m trying to survive.

Up until this awful moment, the wedding vows with him had chimed in my twenty-five-year-old imagination. In my blind stupidity, I believed we were a heavenly match—not just lovers but partners and best friends.

He was my high school crush, and we dated years later after reconnecting at a mutual friend’s wedding. Our story unfolded further at a conference, where I initially suspected he was marking me. It seemed like an exciting love story.

He's a nice, well-groomed man—God-fearing and financially disciplined. A business mogul who respects his time, he was destined to be a great husband, undoubtedly a blessing for the lucky one.

I had already discussed changing my last name to his with my lawyer and even browsed unique black wedding gowns, saving screenshots in my phone gallery.

Foolish me.

Heat rises in my chest, and my temperature suddenly soars. There would be a lot to delete from my phone gallery to secure enough space.

He gazes at me, pity clouding those small brown eyes. I can’t tolerate the look, not now. I hold back tears, my eyes weakening under the strain. I turn to go home; my legs ache from standing for what feels like an hour.

He grabs my arm, saying, "Lucia, wait. Don't leave when you are upset.”

Calling me ‘Lucia’ now? What about babe-doo, big head? I reply, “screw you.” My solace is the fleeting look of pain that zings across his face.

I make it onto the sidewalk alone before tears start falling, and for that, I’m grateful.

The next few weeks are a nuclear bomb to my emotions. To say the breakup shattered me would be an understatement. Songs make me cry; I realize I listen more to lyrics than sounds, and everything seems to be about him. Sleep is restless, my only resting phase then.

I dye my hair from black to pink, pierce my nose and earlobes in four places—I just want to feel the pain of how my heart hurts. Everything reminds me of him, and I decide to look weird.

Even though he’s ripped my heart out of my rib, all I can think of is what we shared. I’m going crazy. I have to get out of Foggia, my hometown, as fast as possible.

I turn to my one escape: gambling.

In my past, I experienced heartbreak, a friendship heartbreak. Four years ago, the day after high school graduation, I entered a casino and discovered my love for baccarat and blackjack. I prefer blackjack because I compete against the dealer, not other players, making it strategic. The game and its strategy become a healing outlet for me.

With three years of experience, I played with high strategic thinkers, involved in a business in another city. A motherly colleague connected me with a wealthy wine family in Naples, where I became their financial analyst, working in their residence.

Like any girl in my position, I took the job as a family financial analyst in the renowned wine industry owned by Mafia billionaires

The Russo family, known as the undertakers, Naples Mafia royalty.

The vinnoRicco, their wine company, is the envy of the industry, nestled in the heart of Italy’s vineyards.

Working with vinnoRicco is a dream for everyone.

 The headquarters is an architectural masterpiece against lush vineyards, adorned with grapevine motifs and wrought iron accents. The estate includes a landscaped courtyard for tastings and gatherings.

Whispers and rumors about the Russo family circulate in the wine world. I’ve heard crazy things—claims of immense wealth, ruthless tactics to stay at the top, raising their young to be bloodthirsty monsters, involvement in kinky sex, and even the curious rumor that the men spank their women.

Despite their criminal ties, my business _ my money. The undertakers have a strong sense of morals, a mysterious brotherhood with a code that involves using their underground businesses to take from the rich and give to the poor.

As for what happens behind closed doors in their red bedrooms?

I couldn’t care less. I have no intention of getting involved with any of them.