Barcelona, Spain — 11:47 p.m.
The velvet of her dress clung to Valentina Cruz like sin on Sunday.
Deep crimson, like fresh blood. Cut dangerously high on one thigh, it whispered with every step down the Cruz estate's candlelit corridors an ancestral home built on violence and whispered legends, where chandeliers sparkled above marble floors soaked in the sins of kings.
She was born to this world. Bred for it.
One hand held a glass of Rioja as if it were a loaded weapon. The other clutched a letter a bloodstained envelope sealed with the Moretti family crest.
The blood wasn't hers.
That was the first lie of the night.
She moved like a goddess, but her mind was a battlefield. Inside her chest, her heart ticked like a bomb beautiful, lethal, and set on a timer. One false move, and everything her father had built could collapse. Or ignite.
Her heels clicked in slow, deliberate rhythm like a warning before a bullet leaves the chamber.
She paused by the window, overlooking the moonlit courtyard. The air was perfumed with citrus blossoms and gun oil. Beyond the estate walls: Barcelona. Beautiful. Arrogant. And dangerous just like her.
The letter had arrived an hour ago. Wrapped in silk. Dipped in imported perfume.
And sealed with the mark of the Moretti mafia.
A marriage proposal.
"Unión por la paz," her father had said. A union for peace.
But Valentina had learned young that peace in their world was just the pause before war. A chess move. A facade.
This wasn't a proposal.
It was a warning in cursive.
She downed the last of her wine, wiped the corner of her mouth, and unfolded the letter again.
Emilio Moretti.
Crowned prince of the Neapolitan underworld. Her intended.
Golden boy. Ivy League teeth. Mafia royalty.
But her instincts screamed one truth:
He didn't write this.
She recognized the hand behind the ink. The sharp, controlled strokes. The pressure of the pen. The quiet violence in every line.
Lorenzo.
The bastard son. The black wolf. The one they never spoke of at dinner.
And if he was behind the letter this was more than strategy.
This was a provocation.
Naples, Italy — 1:12 a.m.
Smoke coiled in the air like a whisper from hell.
Lorenzo "Lupo" Moretti stared out of the west wing window, a cigarette between two fingers and a storm brewing in his eyes. The villa behind him was a tomb of marble and mirrors his prison since birth.
Born without a crown. Raised like a weapon.
The knock on his door was soft at first, then insistent.
He didn't move. Didn't answer. Let them wait.
Only after the third knock did he rise slow, deliberate. The boy standing outside barely met his gaze, arm outstretched with a sealed message.
"She accepted," the boy stammered. "Señorita Cruz will be here in two days."
Lorenzo took the note. Let the cigarette scorch its corner. Watched the blood soak through the paper like a blessing and a curse.
Of course it was stained.
Their families didn't write with ink.
They wrote in blood.
He stared at the flames licking the edges of the envelope. Valentina Cruz. Seventeen the last time he saw her. All fire and fury. A mouth that should've been outlawed. Eyes that burned holes into his composure.
Now she was coming back. Grown. Beautiful. Promised to his brother.
Lorenzo crushed the cigarette underfoot.
"She shouldn't come here," he muttered.
But it was too late.
The trap had already been baited.
Two Days Later — Moretti Villa, Naples
The air smelled like war. Dressed in perfume.
Valentina stepped from the SUV with calculated grace. Her dress a river of blood-red silk shimmered beneath the courtyard lights. Cameras flashed. The press leaned from behind the iron gates, hungry for scandal.
Guards moved to shield her.
"Basta. Estoy bien," she snapped. Enough. I'm fine.
Her father taught her early: never let them see you flinch. Never let them see you sweat. And certainly never let them see your heart.
The Morettis stood waiting. A row of statues carved from cruelty.
Emilio, her betrothed, stood in the center like a prince from a poisoned fairy tale smile sharp, suit tailored, charm radiating like heat.
He kissed her hand.
"Benvenuta a casa, Valentina."
Welcome home.
She smiled like a knife.
And then she saw him.
Lorenzo.
Leaning against a marble column like sin given form. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest rebellion, tattoos curling down his forearms like whispered sins. A glass of grappa in one hand, silence in the other.
He didn't speak.
Didn't nod.
Just watched her.
Like she was a puzzle he already knew how to destroy.
And damn her she liked it.
Later That Night — East Wing Suite
Her room was a palace of gold and velvet. Gilded mirrors. Sheets that cost more than some lives. But she didn't care about the opulence.
What caught her breath was what waited on the bed.
A velvet box.
She opened it slowly.
Not the ring Emilio had shown her.
This one was different. Older. Harsher. Edges like glass. Beautiful. Dangerous.
Tucked beneath it, a note.
"You may wear his ring.
But your soul already belongs to me."
No signature.
None needed.
Her fingers trembled as she closed the box.
Lorenzo Moretti had just declared war.
And Valentina?
She never lost wars.