The silence after Valentina's outburst was deafening.
She stormed out of the study, her boots hammering against the marble floor with unrelenting force. Each footfall echoed like a declaration of war, ringing through the villa's hollowed halls. The warmth of the Sicilian sun streaming through the windows mocked her too bright, too soft, too golden for the storm inside her chest.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, as though the air itself was poison. Rage licked at her bones. Shame twisted in her gut. But it was betrayal that left the bitterest taste in her mouth.
He didn't even try to stop me.
Lupo's silence had been a knife sharper than any enemy's.
Meanwhile, inside the study, the tension coiled thick between Lupo and Don Arturo like smoke from an unseen fire. Lupo remained frozen, his spine straight, his fists clenched at his sides.
Don Arturo moved slowly, with the precision of a man who had survived too many wars to rush anymore. He poured himself a glass of brandy, the glug of amber liquid the only sound in the room.
"She's spiraling," Arturo said after a long sip, eyes still fixed on the decanter. His voice was casual, almost bored.
"You knew what this would do to her," Lupo growled. His tone was low, feral.
Arturo turned then. Not as a father, not as a mentor but as a tactician. "I needed her to burn."
Lupo's jaw flexed. "Why?"
"Because until she breaks, she'll never stop fighting me."
"She's your daughter."
"She's my heir," Arturo snapped. "And heirs are forged in fire, not affection."
Lupo stared him down. "You let her believe I betrayed her."
"I didn't need to," Arturo said, his voice dropping into a whisper that felt more dangerous than any shout. "You let her believe that. Because you said nothing. You didn't defend yourself. You didn't defend her. Silence is a weapon, Lupo. And today, you used it."
Valentina didn't cry when she entered her wing of the estate. She didn't scream or throw something against the wall. No she was far past the luxury of theatrics.
She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time, like she was undressing a corpse. Her lip trembled not from weakness, but from restraint. Her entire body was taut with a violence she didn't yet know where to direct.
Then her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
UNKNOWN: "They'll never let you rule. But I will."
She froze.
No name. No photo. The number was encrypted and untraceable. A second message came through before she could react.
UNKNOWN: "Check the wine cellar. Something awaits."
Valentina's eyes narrowed.
Someone was watching her.
Her first instinct was to delete it. To call security. To destroy the phone.
But curiosity had always been her most fatal flaw.
She grabbed her coat and went.
The wine cellar was colder than she remembered. Not the kind of cold that came from climate control but something else. Something unnatural. The stone walls seemed to hum with old secrets. The scent of aged oak barrels, rich wine, and something metallic clung to the air.
Blood?
Her boots echoed against the stairs as she descended. At the far end, lit by the dim golden glow of the sconces, sat a small silver tray on top of a wine barrel.
A black velvet box rested on it like an offering.
Her fingers hovered, then snatched it open.
Inside, a photograph. A grainy surveillance still.
Her father. Lupo. Emilio. And a woman she didn't recognize.
The woman stood just a step too close to her father, her hand on his shoulder, her face turned in a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Her stomach twisted.
There was a flash drive tucked beneath the photo. No label.
She snatched both items, slipped them into her coat, and hurried out pulse pounding.
Back upstairs, behind closed mahogany doors, Don Arturo sat with Emilio in a private corridor laced with velvet wallpaper and old oil paintings of dead men who once ruled.
"She took the bait," Arturo murmured, swirling the last inch of brandy in his glass.
Emilio leaned against the wall, smirking. "She always does."
Arturo didn't return the smile. "Let her believe she's unraveling a conspiracy. It will keep her focused away from what matters."
"And Lupo?"
Arturo's face darkened. "He's becoming a liability. If he flips, we bury him."
That night, Valentina locked herself inside her room and drew the blackout curtains.
She plugged the flash drive into her encrypted laptop and leaned in close.
The video was timestamped. Low-resolution. Security camera footage, likely from a meeting room. The angle was tilted slightly, as if captured in secret.
Her father sat at the table, older and thinner, but still radiating command. Emilio sat beside him, younger, mouth twisted in a boyish smirk.
Then Lupo entered the frame.
Her throat tightened.
The conversation wasn't audible, but their body language spoke volumes. Her father passed a leather folder across the table to a man in a black coat a man with a scar across his right eye. Valentina paused the video, zoomed in.
She recognized him.
He was at her mother's funeral. He hadn't spoken. Hadn't wept. But he had kissed her mother's photo when no one was watching.
Her heart stopped.
The video resumed. The man slid something across the table to Lupo.
A ring.
Heavy. Silver. With a serpent carved around a dagger.
Not her family's crest.
Their enemy's.
Valentina sat frozen. Her fingers clenched the edge of her desk, knuckles white.
Lupo had taken it.
Willingly.
She didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Didn't breathe.
She just whispered, through lips that no longer felt like hers:
"You too?"