18. Valaria
Valaria
Istep onto the coronation gala stage.
An explosion of flashbulbs—bursts of white pop like fireworks in rapid succession, blind me.
I smile anyway. My lips are painted; my smile practiced to perfection.
To the world, I am power wrapped in silk.
Inside, I am breaking.
Every move I make is calculated. Every step hides the judder in my chest.
Because Pietro is here—somewhere. By now, he must know I know.
Knows I heard the tapes. Found the files. Read the words that made me feel like a mission—instead of a woman.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I’m here to finish the job.
Expose the mole. Secure the crown. Protect my country.
But I still scan the crowd for him.
And it kills me when I don’t see him.
The ballroom is a glittering mirage. Gold banners. Velvet drapes. Royal insignia gleaming on silver goblets. Sapphire-studded guard blades.
My scripted speech is brief. I nod to dignitaries as if they’re my friends.
False geniality. My stock-in-trade.
Emma finds me.
“Still breathing?” she asks.
“Barely.”
She presses something into my palm.
A security pin. Her private channel. Silent alarm mode. No questions asked.
“I don’t know what you’re planning,” she whispers, “but if you need me, I’ve got your back.”
I hug her harder than I should.
She knows. Even without words.
At 10:37 p.m., I spot him.
Not Pietro.
The traitor.
Ambassador Virel. Smiling. Toasting. Moving through the crowd like a man with no guilt in his bones.
He was never on the files.
Never flagged.
But he’s here now—glancing toward the orchestra pit, nodding once.
A signal.
I stiffen. Tap the comms device in my earring.
“Security—this is Serrano. Confirm guards on the lower balcony. The hit is happening. Now. Security alert.”
Static. No reply.
I move.
Down the stairs. Past the ballroom. Toward the south archway where Principe Luca and Principessa Emiliana, are set to pass during the final procession from the chapel.
I tap my comm. “Reroute the royals.”
A shadowy figure in the archway.
Rifle. Silencer. Full tactical gear.
I slip behind him—raise my gun. “Don’t.”
He turns.
Fires.
I drop, roll, rise to shoot back, hitting him in the shoulder—he doesn’t go down. The red dot of his sight flickers between my eyes—travels down to my broken heart.
His eyes lock into mine, filled with sudden recognition.
He jerks the gun barrel up and machine-guns the ceiling. The frescos erupt in a cascade of shattered artistry and drifting dust.
With a deafening crash, a chandelier explodes in a storm of glittering shards. Screams erupt.
And then—he charges, kicks my gun. It twirls across the marble.
A figure tackles him from behind.
Pietro.
Eyes, razor-sharp. Hands fast and merciless. His precision-trained muscles drive a punch meant to disable—the assassin flashes a blade. Each counterattack faster, deadlier.
Scrabbling for my gun, I steady my breath and narrow one eye over the barrel of the 9mm—tracking every brutal exchange with icy focus. The two men move in a blur—strikes, dodges, twists.
The assassin’s blade lifts high, exposing his side. I squeeze the trigger, praying the bullet hits its target—not the man I desperately need to save.
The assailant falls. His blood staining the purity of white marble.
After the chaos has settled and the ballroom is locked down, I find Pietro on the stone steps of the east wing beneath a canopy of stars. His jacket slung over his shoulder, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Bruised. Battered. Still beautiful.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps.