Chapter Six - Severo
Severo’s Private Quarters – Northern Wing, Dantès Estate
I can’t stop grinning.
The ache across the bridge of my nose pulses with every heartbeat— deep, satisfying. My fingers trace along the swelling curve, the warmth of dried blood crusting at the nostrils. The guards offered to call a medic. I waved them off. Let it sit. Let it throb. Let it remind me.
She headbutted me.
She fucking headbutted me.
I pace the length of my room barefoot, blood-streaked shirt discarded across the back of a leather chair.
The dim overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the marble floor.
I catch my reflection in the tall mirror near the armoire—shirtless, half-smeared in her fight, and smiling like I just won the lottery.
Because I have.
She’s... exquisite. That’s the word. Not beautiful in the bland, glossy way most women who throw themselves at me tend to be. No. She’s unrefined . Tension in her spine. Anger in her mouth. Fear and fire braided into the shape of a girl used to being left and stubborn to break cleanly.
And those eyes.
I saw them go wide when I entered, panic blooming behind them like a detonation. But she didn’t cower. No flailing. No desperate begging. She stood. Chin up. Lips parted, trembling with words she hadn’t decided whether to speak or scream.
God, I wanted to touch her right then. Not for comfort. Just to see what she’d do.
She’s smaller than I imagined. Fragile-looking, even. But the way she moved—fast, volatile—like something cornered but not ready to die yet. That’s the best kind.
I’ve seen all the others. Maksim, for all his muscle, is predictable. Mina is careful. They want power because it was promised to them. They chase the inheritance like moths around a flame. All greed, no grace.
But this girl?
She doesn’t even know what she’s sitting on. She’s not chasing anything. She is the prize. And that’s what makes her dangerous.
I exhale through my nose and wince. The sharp jolt runs deep into the bone. My grin widens.
There’s something not quite right about her. Something broken—but sharp. Like a shattered violin string, still capable of drawing blood. And beneath all that panic and exhaustion and pretty little trembles...
There’s fight .
When my father died, I didn’t mourn him.
Not really. I poured a glass of Ardbeg and booked my return flight to Italy.
My mind was already in Rome, walking the cobbled streets, blending into crowds that didn’t know or care who I was.
I had plans—simple ones. Wake up late. Drink espresso.
Fuck who I wanted. Forget what the Dantès name had ever meant.
Maksim was the heir. Everyone knew that.
The golden son. He ran my father’s ports, collected debts, and managed soldiers.
I was the second son, born to the second wife, and I’d spent most of my life dodging my father’s ambitions.
He tried to bring me in. Showed me the family tree carved with blood and tradition.
I’d watched his hands shake while signing treaties with men who would just as soon slit his throat.
I saw his sleepless nights, his paranoia, the constant war beneath the surface of everything he touched.
I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to become a man like him.
And I wouldn’t have.
Until that night. Two days after my father’s death.
It was late. Nearly four in the morning.
I remember because I’d just silenced my alarm.
I hadn’t slept long—jet lag had coiled around my spine like a fist—and I’d been tossing in bed shirtless, the covers tangled around my legs.
The estate was unusually still. No patrols under my window.
No humming from the hallway security grid. I noted the calm, but I didn’t rise.
I wish I had.
The glass shattered before I registered the sound fully. It came from the far wall—my bedroom window. Not a crack. An explosion.
Large, jagged shards burst inward, catching the moonlight like knives. My instinct kicked in a half-second too late. I rolled off the bed and onto the floor just as two dark figures crashed through the opening, landing with the grace of men who had done this before.
They didn’t speak. No warning. No demands. Just violence.
One of them grabbed me by the shoulders, slamming me against the marble floor. The other followed with a swift kick to my ribs. The air punched out of my lungs and my arms flailed, still tangled in the bed sheets. I caught a glimpse of black gloves, glinting metal, the hilt of a curved blade.
They pinned me. One drove his knee into my chest while the other pressed the knife against my throat, slow and cruel, letting me feel the cold bite of the blade. I could smell the leather of his gloves, feel the pressure tightening.
I thrashed beneath them, teeth clenched, trying to roll my weight sideways. One of them leaned closer, forcing my head to the marble. My cheek scraped against it. The blade moved. Not off me— into me.
A sharp burn tore across my collarbone as the knife slashed down in a shallow diagonal. It wasn’t deep enough to kill, but it was deep enough to remind me I was seconds from dying.
I braced for it. I actually did.
Then—gunfire.
Close. Deafening. Controlled.
The weight on top of me shifted. One man collapsed to the side with a grunt, his blood spattering the edge of my pillow. The other turned just in time to catch a bullet to the chest. He dropped without grace.
I rolled over, panting, vision blurred from pain and blood loss. That’s when I saw him.
Matteo.
He stood just inside the broken window, his stance calm, shoulders squared. Back then, he wasn’t my second. Just a perimeter guard—quiet, loyal, and unremarkable. I barely knew his name.
He didn’t speak. He stepped forward and tossed a pistol to me. I caught it by the grip and rolled to my knees.
Another figure emerged from the hallway. Masked. Armed. Matteo shot him in the leg. He collapsed screaming.
Then came another wave—four or five more intruders. We fought side by side, back-to-back, no need for commands. He covered me while I reloaded. I took a man’s knee while he caught the throat. We moved like we’d done it a thousand times.
Blood painted the walls. A night lamp fell. One of the curtains caught fire.
Eventually, the last man standing dropped his weapon and begged. Matteo shot him in the shoulder.
I walked over to him, shirtless and bloodied, the cut across my chest still dripping onto the floor.
He was gasping, his face half hidden by the mask.
“Who sent you?” I demanded.
He looked up, eyes glassy, mouth trembling.
He said it softly.
“Maksim.”
That was the moment something in me died .
Whatever part of me wanted to live a quiet life, eat slow breakfasts, and leave all of this behind—it turned to ash.
From that night on, I made a vow.
I would take everything from Maksim and Mina. Not just out of revenge—though that was part of it. But because they’d tried to erase me and failed.
They poked the sleeping beast. Now I’d nest in their throats.
What they didn’t understand—what they still don’t—is that I’m not like them. They hoard power like rats hoard food. Greedy, desperate, afraid. I don’t want it. I never have. And that’s why I win.
I don’t fight to possess. I fight because it amuses me.
Because I can .
I chuckle quietly, rolling my shoulders and pacing back toward the fireplace. The nose she bloodied still aches faintly. I touch it and smile wider. A gift. One I didn’t expect.
Then I murmur her name aloud for the first time since leaving her—
“ Lira Marcelline Falco. ”
It rolls off my tongue like a secret.
What was it about your mother that made my father— my father —hand over everything like a spineless romantic?
My father, who never loved anyone, who never showed tenderness, who barely acknowledged me outside of strategy meetings and bloodline lectures…
And yet, there she was.
I cross to the drawer beneath the antique liquor cabinet. It sticks slightly when I pull it open—old wood, older secrets. I reach inside and remove the envelope tucked beneath a false bottom.
Inside is a torn photograph. A grainy shot, black and white. Creased at the center. My father—young, leaner, not yet hollowed by the weight of the name Dantès. And beside him…
Her.
Chiara Falco.
They’re outside somewhere, a cliff maybe, Italy from the look of it. Her dark hair is caught mid-laugh. His hands are on her waist. They’re kissing like fools. Like the world isn’t watching.
I stare at it for a long time.
He never touched my mother that way. Hell, I can barely remember them in the same room.
But here—he’s smiling. Not the smirk he wore like armor. Something real .
And Chiara looks… blissful. Reckless.
A goddess made mortal, just long enough to ruin him.
I tuck the photo back into the envelope and slide it into my inner breast pocket. I’ll have it digitized. Preserved. Studied, maybe.
Because whatever spell she cast on him, her daughter is carrying the same poison.
And I want to be the one who learns exactly how it works.
The door opens without ceremony—no knock, no clearance. Only one man walks into my space that way.
Matteo steps inside, rain clinging to the hem of his coat, tablet in hand. His eyes flick briefly to the tissue stained with dried blood on the side table, then back to me. “You asked for the background on Miss Falco’s connections,” he says evenly. “I’ve got it.”
I wave him in with two fingers and take the tablet. The screen lights up, casting a soft glow against the carved lines of my face. My fingers scroll, slow and unhurried.
“She’s got two people,” Matteo begins, his voice smooth but clipped, like he already doesn’t like where this is going. “First—Nicola Garvez. Bartender. She worked with Lira. Lives three blocks from her. Friend. Maybe more. It’s hard to tell.” He nods toward the screen.