Valentina didn't sleep that night.
She didn't even unlace the gown.
She stood at the wide, floor-to-ceiling window of her suite in the Moretti estate, wrapped in shadows and silk, staring out at the sliver of moon caught between the marble colonnades. Her back was ramrod straight. The train of her gown pooled at her feet like black water. Behind her, the lace mask lay torn on the vanity, discarded like the illusion it had once held.
The room still smelled of roses and cigar smoke. Her lips still burned from Lorenzo's mouth. Her heart still beat like it was being hunted.
She hadn't planned to kiss him.
She hadn't planned to want it.
But something in her snapped the moment he touched her, and she hadn't felt caged she'd felt chosen.
And now the storm was coming.
She touched her bare collarbone, as if expecting the necklace she never wore to burn her. But the only fire she felt now came from inside.
Somewhere below, the staff reset the ballroom stripping down chandeliers, rolling away velvet runners, sweeping confetti made of secrets and sin.
The party was over.
The war had begun.
Elsewhere – Subterranean Garage, Hours After the Masquerade
Lorenzo cracked his knuckles and looked down at the man slumped against the concrete wall.
Fabio Moretti distant cousin, loud-mouthed parasite, and opportunistic traitor had blood leaking from his ear and a mouth swollen shut from too many wrong words spoken too loudly.
The stench of oil, copper, and piss filled the air.
"You should've kept your tongue," Lorenzo said, voice low, as he adjusted his cufflinks, unbothered by the mess.
"I, I didn't mean" Fabio tried, his speech slurred.
"No," Lorenzo interrupted. "You meant to embarrass her. You meant to shame her."
He crouched, staring the man in the eye. "What you didn't mean to do was survive."
With a flick of his wrist, Lorenzo carved a clean line across the side of Fabio's cheek with a silver letter opener no flourish, no drama. Just a scar.
A signature.
"Let this be your mask from now on," he murmured. "Every time you look in the mirror, remember what happened the night you crossed a queen."
He stood, flicking blood from his fingers.
"Clean him up. Leave him outside the Bianchi front steps."
His driver hesitated. "Alive?"
"For now."
Morning – Cruz Estate, Mexico City
Valentina sat at the long dining table like a relic in an altar motionless, gleaming, untouchable. Her breakfast sat untouched: espresso gone cold, blood orange segments arranged in perfect, uneaten symmetry.
Across from her, Don Arturo Cruz read the paper in silence. But Valentina knew him well. The silence was a tactic. The newspaper was a prop.
The real message sat in the manila folder between them.
Her name printed cleanly on the tab.
Arturo finally looked up, setting the paper aside. His eyes deep, coal black, and unflinching met hers with surgical precision.
"I've arranged for you to fly to Milan," he said.
"Why?"
"There are irregularities in the Bianchi casino books."
"I don't handle laundering audits."
"You do now."
She didn't blink. "This is exile."
Arturo didn't flinch either. "This is strategy. You're too visible. Too volatile. I need you out of the spotlight."
Away from the Morettis.
Away from Lorenzo.
Valentina leaned back, folding her arms. "And what about the alliance?"
Arturo's expression sharpened. "An alliance is only valuable if it's clean. You've muddied the waters."
She met his stare. "I'm not the one sleeping with enemies behind closed doors."
Silence.
Then, a warning, soft as silk.
"Don't confuse your rank with immunity, hija. You're my blood, but even blood dries if it spills too freely."
Valentina stood. The chair scraped back with a sharp sound that made the staff flinch from afar.
"You want me gone? Fine. But remember: I don't disappear. I reposition."
And with that, she turned and left the room.
Behind her, Arturo reached for his espresso, but his hand shook slightly.
That Night – Lorenzo's Rooftop, Venice Outskirts
Lorenzo stood barefoot on the slate tiled rooftop, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette glowing like a dying star between his lips. Below, the canal flowed like liquid obsidian, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a passing gondola.
The city was sleeping.
He wasn't.
He had already received word Valentina would leave for Milan at sunrise. Quietly. Strategically. Like something shameful being swept beneath a rug.
They thought separating her from him would break their hold.
Fools.
They had no idea what she had awakened in him.
She wasn't just a flame to him now she was the fuse.
And they'd just lit it.
Lorenzo dropped the cigarette into the canal and watched it hiss.
If they wanted war, he'd start with whispers.
And end with fire.
En Route to Milan – Valentina's Private Car
The countryside blurred past like a dream disintegrating.
Valentina sat alone in the back of the sleek black car, hands folded neatly on her lap, a thin blade hidden inside the spine of her leather bound notebook. She had brought no luggage. Just files. Just names.
The silence inside the vehicle was dense. No radio. No phone calls. Just the sound of exile padded in luxury.
Her phone buzzed once.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, thumb hovering.
Then tapped.
1 Attachment.
A hand.
A ring.
Bloodied.
Draped over black velvet.
Her breath caught.
Fabio.
The gaudy lion shaped ring on the hand was unmistakable.
A gift. A warning. A promise.
No words accompanied the image.
None were needed.
Her lips curled. Not in fear but in something darker.
They'd tried to cut her from the board.
But Lorenzo had made it clear: she wasn't playing their game anymore.
She was rewriting it.
And Milan? Milan was just her opening move.
Flashback: The Velvet Lesson
It was dusk in Marbella. The sea air had been thick with salt and silence, the kind only the wealthy could afford when danger had a view of the Mediterranean. Twelve-year-old Valentina stood in the training courtyard behind the Cruz estate, her long black braid dripping sweat onto the polished stone tiles. Her white fencing uniform was stained red not with blood, but with the rose petals Don Arturo had thrown at her feet.
He was seated like a king watching an arena match. Whiskey in hand. Tie loosened. Expression unreadable.
"Again," he barked in Spanish.
She lifted the épée. Her tiny hands trembled around the hilt. The male instructor loomed tall in front of her, unforgiving and twice her size. She lunged. He parried with force that sent her stumbling.
Her father didn't flinch.
"You fall again, hija, and I will replace you with a son."
The words hit harder than the instructor's blade.
But Valentina didn't cry.
She never cried.
She stood up, wiped her face, and this time her blade sang through the air and hit the instructor's chest squarely. The man stepped back, nodding.
Don Arturo clapped once.
Then twice.
He stood and walked over, placing his warm, calloused hand on her shoulder.
"This is the first time you've earned your name," he murmured. "La Fiera. Not because you're wild, but because when wounded you bite."
Valentina beamed through her grit.
But inside, she made a silent vow: She would never need a man to choose her. She would never wait to be given power. She would take it.