My knuckles were raw again.

The training mats were still warm beneath my feet, and sweat clung to the back of my neck as I stood in the quiet stillness of the gym, breathing through another round. I’d started before dawn. Again. Sword drills, hand-to-hand, conditioning—again. My limbs burned, but I welcomed it. Pain made things clearer.

Matteo entered just as I was finishing the final sequence. He didn’t speak. Just leaned against the pillar and watched as I twisted, pivoted, and brought the blade down with precision.

Only when I’d stilled did he speak. “Your mother trained like that.”

I turned, raising a brow. “Before or after the marriage?”

“Always,” he said. “She hated being underestimated. Said it made the victories sweeter.”

I peeled the gloves from my hands, blood crusted faintly at the knuckles. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“No.” His voice was steady. “I think you’re preparing for war. And pretending it’s therapy.”

I almost laughed.

But the silence between us softened instead.

Matteo stepped forward, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a folded photograph—aged, but preserved. He handed it to me.

It was her. My mother. Mid-strike, one arm extended in perfect form. A slight grin on her face, wild and composed at once.

“She was brilliant,” he said. “And terrifying. She’d smile at her enemies while calculating how to ruin them.”

“Sounds familiar,” I murmured, handing it back.

He didn’t smile. But his eyes did. Just barely.

“She’d be proud of you,” he said quietly. “And probably warn me not to get in your way.”

Later that afternoon, I found myself in the garden courtyard, watching the sunlight filter through the ivy-covered walls. Luca approached, hands in his pockets, his shirt half-unbuttoned from a long patrol.

“You missed lunch,” he said, handing me a glass of cold water.

“I missed a lot of things,” I replied, taking it. “Doesn’t mean I need them.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “You know that sounds like something Valentina would say.”

I looked at him. “The difference is—I mean it.”

That earned me a smirk. “You’re harder than her.”

“I have to be.”

He watched me for a moment. “You’re becoming fire.”

I met his gaze, heartbeat steady. “Then don’t stand too close.”

The heat between us was old now—familiar, but never indulged. Because we both knew power and passion couldn’t share the same room. Not in Velmorra. Not with enemies waiting behind every corner.

“You trust anyone again yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“Not even me?”

I didn’t answer.

And he didn’t push.

At dinner, Matteo gave a quiet nod as I presented the revised trade agreement with the northern families. It passed without objection. The advisors didn’t dare interrupt. My voice was low. My tone never wavered. And still, they listened like I was law.

Afterward, Matteo and I walked side by side down the hall. He didn’t speak until we reached the corridor to the war room.

“You’ve already won over the men who doubted you,” he said. “Now they’re just hoping you don’t decide they’re disposable.”

I paused, then looked up at him. “Are they?”

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t say no.

That night, I returned to my suite. Luca was waiting just outside.

“We should move you to the inner wing,” he said. “Extra security. Encrypted locks.”

I shook my head. “I’ve always been a target. I’m just harder to hit now.”

“You’re not untouchable,” he said, voice low.

“No,” I said. “But I’m not alone either.”

His gaze flickered, like he wanted to say something more. But I stepped past him.

The door shut behind me. No lock. Just the soft click of solitude.

The lights stayed off. I sat at the edge of the bed, still in my training clothes, still bleeding just slightly from a cut I hadn’t bothered to bandage.

There was no fear in my chest. Not even tension.

And that scared me more than anything.

I wasn’t breaking. I was bending into something colder. More dangerous than anyone expected.

A knock came. Sharp. Urgent.

One of Matteo’s men stood there, pale, tense.

“We intercepted this,” he said. “It slipped into one of the diplomatic packages delivered today.”

He handed me a sealed envelope. “No prints. Anonymous drop. But the timing…”

I took it. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Just pointed to the bold red stamp on the corner.

CONFIDENTIAL.

I waited until the door shut behind him. Then I broke the seal.

Inside: a single note.

Eleven words. Sharp, deliberate, and scrawled in black ink.

“I took apart better women than you. Piece by piece.”