13. Pietro
Pietro
There’s blood on my hands.
Not mine this time. An attacker. A traitor.
I scrub them in the villa’s marble sink, the water pink with residue. The bastard’s face—familiar, smug—won’t leave my head. He’d stood in the same palazzo hallways we did. Drank from the royal crystal. Kissed babies at orphanage galas.
Now he’s bleeding out in a reinforced cell waiting for interrogation. If he makes it that long.
I dry my hands, head still buzzing.
The door behind me creaks.
“Should’ve known you’d be in here,” says a familiar voice.
I turn to find Luca—no crown, no formality. Just a black turtleneck, dark jeans, and the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders.
“Your Highness, you’re underdressed.”
“Grand entrance later,” he replies.
“And your mommy, Marchesa?”
“Too dangerous. Locked her up in the palazzo.”
He steps beside me, staring into the mirror like he’s reading the future in my face. “How bad?”
“Worse than we thought. The breach was coordinated. They knew the layout. They knew she’d respond. He was gunning for her.”
His jaw tightens. “Valaria.”
“Yeah. Someone wants her dead. Someone else wants to take her alive.”
“She okay?”
I nod once. “She’s fine. But I’m not sure for how long.”
He leans on the counter. “She’s smart. But prideful.”
“She’s brilliant,” I say. “But she thinks satin is stronger than armor—thinks she’s invincible.”
Luca gives me a side glance. “Sounds familiar.”
I ignore the jab.
“She deserves more than this,” I mutter. “Than being hunted—stalked. For what? A goddammed legacy she has no memory of?”
“You care about her.”
It’s not a question.
I look at him. “I’ve tried not to.”
Luca nods, then claps a hand on my shoulder.
“You’re the only one she won’t see coming.”
And then he’s gone.
Leaving me with wet hands, a dry throat, and a truth I’ve been trying to outrun for weeks.
An hour later, we’re inside the gala.
Crystal goblets. China rimmed with real gold. Fountains made of ice and envy. The ballroom is a blur of black-tie opulence. A glittering symphony of excess. Chandeliers the size of small cars drip with crystals, casting a golden glow across the marble floors polished to a mirror’s shine.
Every corner of the grand ballroom whispers wealth—gilded columns, towering floral arrangements of white orchids and deep red roses.
A string quartet plays something elegant and forgettable, their notes floating beneath the soft hum of diplomacy—whispered intentions, false promises.
Conversation sparkles with flirtation and veiled threats, laughter practiced and just sharp enough to cut.
Guests slip like silken scarves through the space—diplomats in tailored tuxedos, accompanied by young beauties in designer gowns.
Our operatives tuxedoed-up to blend in while watching everything.
Waiters in white gloves offer trays of caviar, truffle canapes, and champagne flutes that never run dry.
And above it all, the ceiling rises into an impossibly high dome, hand-painted with a fresco of gods and monsters—a fitting metaphor.
Because here, under all the charm and glitter, power shifts with a glance.
The stakes are masked behind smiles. And for those who know where to look, every dance is just another move in a dangerous game.
Valaria is twenty feet away; her hair piled in soft waves like she’s already conquered the room. She doesn’t see me watching her—but I always am.
She lifts her phone briefly.
“Yes, Beatrice, I approved the Forbes layout… No, move the Sofia launch to Friday. Tell them I said so. And please, reschedule Pascal. I don’t care if he’s crying again.”
She ends the call. No flinch. No crack. Just a goddess in stilettos ruling Europe’s media empire between bites of caviar.
Then she turns and sees me.
Her eyes darken.
I start toward her—but she’s already moving.
Toward the terrace. Toward shadows.
I follow. Of course I do.
I trace her steps to nothing—vanished like the sorceress she is.