Seraphina D'Angelo POV, Age 35
[ Old Fortress, Siberia ]
The fortress reeked of gunpowder, blood, and burned ambition. Snow, usually a silent blanket over Siberia, was instead dyed crimson, littered with shell casings and lifeless bodies. The cold air sliced skin, but Seraphina D'Angelo wore death like a velvet coat—graceful, tailored, and inevitable. This was the sixth resistance she'd dismantled. Six underworld uprisings. Six declarations of war. Six mass graves. And all led by one slippery bastard—Isandro Castillo.
The self-proclaimed Prince of the Underworld, son of the late Emilio "El Rey" Castillo, whose god complex could've given the actual devil a run for his infernal throne. Isandro had escaped Seraphina's grip five times. Not out of courage—cowards rarely evolved into men—but because of betrayal.
But tonight? There were no more hands left to shield him. His allies were dust. His legions, corpses. His empire, razed.
The gunfight inside the fortress ended in a deadlock. Bullet casings clattered to the floor like metal rain. Seraphina, ever the tactician, ducked behind a marble statue already half-shattered by stray rounds. Isandro took cover behind an overturned desk, wounded and gasping.
"You always knew this was coming," she called, voice smooth, cruelly calm.
"And you stop playing our underworld games. You think this makes you queen?" Isandro snarled, blood bubbling at his lips.
Seraphina smirked. "The Queen of the Underworld doesn't play games. She ends them."
And so, the bullets gave way to blades. Fists. Knees. Seraphina's elbow cracked his jaw, her boot landed square in his ribs. He was strong—arrogantly so—but Seraphina had danced with monsters far worse. The room echoed with grunts, punches, and shattered furniture.
Isandro lunged with a hidden dagger. She twisted, caught his wrist, and drove her blade through his heart in one fluid motion.
He gasped. "You… bitch. You took my power, my empire...from me."
Seraphina leaned in, whispering, "Power isn't given. It's taken—and defended."
And just like that, the Castillo bloodline ended.
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[ D'Angelo Mansion, Bucharest, Romania ]
Later that night, the Queen returned to her castle—her sprawling, gothic mansion in Bucharest. Bigger than life, colder than death. Empty. No family. No warmth. Just velvet silence and marble floors.
She walked through her estate like a shadow, shedding her bloodied coat, her knives, her silenced pistol. A long bath followed—scalding, scented with black rose oil. The heat couldn't thaw the ache in her chest.
Wrapped in a robe of midnight silk, she entered her music room. The grand piano stood there like a loyal dog, waiting for its mistress.
Her fingers touched the keys.
The first note sang like a sigh. Then another. Then a melody—a mournful waltz of loss and legacy.
She remembered them. Her mother's lullabies. Her father's cologne. Her little sister's giggle.
Gone. All of them. Burned by the Castillos.
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Flashback: Age 11
She was in the backseat when the news came. Her old butler, Matteo, received a call. One look at his face told her something had shattered.
"Turn around," he ordered the driver. "We're leaving. Now."
Matteo didn't cry. He never cried. But that night, he held Seraphina tight in the safehouse and whispered, "They took everything, my little lioness. But we'll take it back."
He gathered the remaining loyalists. Trained her in every weapon, every tactic, every psychological art of war. Her training montage wasn't a movie—it was years of broken bones, multilingual drills, marksmanship at midnight, and poisons disguised as perfume.
By 18, she could disarm a man with a lace garter. By 20, she was fluent in five languages and could build a tracking device from a blender. By 21, she had her first kill—clean, poetic, final.
She held a PhD in Mechanical Engineering, Biology (specializing in poisons), and Computer Science with a focus in AI.
She had become a symphony of intellect and violence. A storm with lipstick.
"Trust once. Test twice. Betrayal is paid in blood," Matteo always said.
And she did.
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Legacy of Fire
The D'Angelo family's downfall began generations ago. Her grandfather—ruthless, megalomaniac, feared—started the Mafia Wars in Europe. Five families once ruled; he wanted all five under his heel. By the time Seraphina's father turned twenty, only two families remained.
Her grandfather was assassinated in a car bombing. Her father—idealistic, weary of war—brokered a fragile peace with the Castillos.
Fifteen years later, they slit his throat and called it progress.
Emilio crowned himself King.
Seraphina, then twenty, rose in blood. Her revenge was not a rampage. It was a war campaign. Every move calculated. Every kill symbolic. She carved her name into Europe's dark history.
"I never wanted the crown," she once told a dying warlord. "I took it because no one else deserved to wear it."
By twenty-three, Emilio was dead.
But Isandro escaped.
Seraphina had a chance to chase him. She didn't. Not then.
She stood among smoking ruins, surrounded by crying orphans and mass graves and realized:
She had become her grandfather.
So she stopped.
Instead of war, she brought order. Invested dirty money into clean industries. Shut down trafficking rings. Destroyed dirty drug labs. Funded orphanages, schools, and underground tech startups.
She became a necessary evil.
"Smile when they expect you to snap. Kill when they expect you to spare."
She became a goddamn legend.
But legends grow old.
The traditionalists hated her reforms. She burned their empires of slavery and addiction. They allied with Isandro. Resistance festered.
And now, at 35, she had put it all to rest.
She stood alone, at last. Victorious.
A Queen without challengers.
But still… alone.
She'd had flings. Gorgeous women from every corner of the world. Artists, spies, assassins. She could make any woman blush—except underaged girls and grandmas. Yep, she had her limits.
But never serious. Never after Matteo died of old age when she was 28. He was the last person she trusted.
She read comics to unwind—Marvel mostly. Loved watching broken heroes stumble through redemption.
She laughed like thunder, smiled like a dagger, and had a habit of cracking jokes right before a kill.
Narcissistic? Sure.
Dark humor? Absolutely.
Human? Barely.
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She played the last note on the piano.
And heard it—click.
The unmistakable sound of a gun cocking behind her.
She didn't flinch. She'd known someone entered the room five minutes ago.
She turned slowly.
There he stood.
Luca.
Son of Matteo.
Her old butler's only child. Raised with her. Trained alongside her. Always the shadow behind her throne.
"Why?" she asked.
His face was twisted with something ugly. "You should've married me."
"You wanted to be king?" she laughed. "A queen doesn't need permission. She takes the throne."
"You used me. Tossed me aside. Matteo was my father too!"
"I never promised you anything. Not loyalty. Not love. You failed to be more than a shadow."
His hands trembled. "You never saw me."
"I did. I just didn't like what I saw."
The shot rang out.
She didn't dodge.
Why would she? She was tired. Done.
The bullet pierced her heart. She slumped onto the piano bench, blood smearing ivory keys.
Luca laughed maniacally.
"I'm the new king now!"
Seraphina smiled.
"Oh, my sweet summer child. You're coming with me to the afterlife. I need a punching bag there."
Her last thoughts weren't of Luca. Or the throne.
They were of her family.
Her mother's voice.
Her sister's tiny hand.
Peace.
And then darkness.
Her heartbeat stopped.
Three minutes passed.
BOOOOOOM.
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Third Person POV
Luca's laughter died as quickly as the explosion rose.
The entire west wing of the mansion vaporized first. Then the east. Then the core.
The Queen had rigged her empire.
She knew only traitors would be in her home. No loyalists would ever let someone sneak up on her.
Every floor was wired. Every contingency planned. The projects helping the common people were pre-programmed to run for the next 30 years.
And after that?
It would depend on the next generation.
The throne may be empty, but her legacy would breathe.
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Seraphina's POV
She gasped.
Eyes fluttered open.
White walls. IV tubes. The steady beep of a heart monitor.
A hospital?
She sat up—and screamed.
Pain. Not just physical.
Memories. Foreign. Not hers.
A classroom? A car accident?
The migraine hit like a freight train.
She passed out again.
To be continued...
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