Luca almost ducked in time. The shot cracked through the night like thunder, the sound tearing through the air just inches above his shoulder. He hit the ground fast, rolling behind the marble column. I didn’t move until I was certain he was breathing. The second shot never came. That told me everything I needed to know: it wasn’t a warning. It was a failed kill.

The estate lit up like a warzone. Alarms howled. Guards poured through the gates. Matteo’s voice came sharp over the comms.

“Lock it down. Now.”

And within minutes, the Corvatti estate was sealed like a fortress. No one in. No one out. The only thing colder than the steel gates was the way I said her name.

Matteo demanded a list. Five suspects. I gave him one. Just one.

“Valentina,” I said quietly. He didn’t question it. Just turned to his men and gave the order.

Dante arrived an hour later. Hair tousled. Eyes bloodshot. His shirt was half-buttoned, and his words stumbled over disbelief.

“She wouldn’t do this,” he said. His voice cracked on ‘wouldn’t.’

Like denial could undo the bullet still buried in the courtyard wall. I didn’t soften.

I looked him in the eye. “She already has.”

Luca was taken to the infirmary. His arm grazed. The bullet had missed, but just barely. Blood stained the edge of his sleeve. I didn’t wait for a medic. I sat beside him, unwrapped the bandage, and cleaned the wound myself. Neither of us spoke at first.

I pressed the cloth to the cut with care, but my hands didn’t tremble. “You okay?” I asked finally. My voice was steady, but my stomach still hadn’t unclenched.

He gave a slow nod, wincing as I wrapped gauze around his bicep. “I will be,” he said. “But if that bullet hit you—”

I looked up. Met his eyes. “I’m not easy to kill,” I whispered.

For a long minute, we just sat there. The sound of guards outside faded to a hum. The fluorescent lights above buzzed gently. His arm was warm beneath my fingers. His breath slower now. My pulse had steadied. And in that stillness, something broke. Not loudly. Not with fireworks. But in quiet surrender.

He leaned forward, and so did I.

Our lips met: soft, slow, raw. It wasn’t a kiss born of triumph or victory. It was a kiss between two people who had bled, survived, and didn’t know if tomorrow would come clean.

I pulled back first. Rested my forehead against his. He didn’t let go of my hand.

“You sure you’re not easy to kill?” he murmured.

I let a small breath escape. “Only if you aim wrong.” That made him chuckle, but there was no laughter in his eyes.

I stood up slowly, smoothing my coat back into place.

“Rest,” I said. “This isn’t over.”

He nodded again, but I saw it in his face: he hated resting. Hated sitting still when the war kept moving. But he didn’t argue. And that, in its own way, was intimacy.

Matteo met me in the east wing. His face unreadable. “We need proof before we strike,” he said. “We have motive, not evidence.”

I shook my head. “We don’t need a confession. We need containment.”

He arched a brow. “You mean war?”

“No,” I said. “I mean silence. The kind that makes her question everyone around her.”

We agreed on isolation. Cut her off from allies. Sever her lines. Let paranoia eat her before we did. A message was sent: not to her, but to the ones who backed her. A single red envelope placed at their doors. No threats. Just the Corvatti seal. That was enough.

Luca didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t either. He sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, bandage across his arm. His back was tense, muscles locked like he was bracing for another shot. I sat across from him, watching his shadow stretch in the candlelight. Neither of us broke the silence.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he said at last. His voice was low, rough. I stood and crossed the room slowly.

“We did see it coming,” I replied. “We just didn’t know how fast it would arrive.” He looked up. “You think she’ll try again?”

I nodded. “Not with a gun. With something colder.”

He reached for his glass, fingers brushing the rim before setting it down untouched. “And if she aims at you next?”

I smiled faintly. “Then she’ll miss again. Because I’ll never be where she expects me.”

Before I left, I pressed a kiss to his temple. Not romantic. Not soft. A seal. A vow between two survivors who didn’t believe in promises, only proof.

“Rest,” I said again. “Tomorrow we move.” He didn’t ask where. He just nodded.

The next morning, the estate corridors were tight with whispers. Staff moved quietly. Guards flanked every window. A new protocol was posted. Visitors banned. Doors locked at night. Even the kitchen staff went silent when I entered. I didn’t mind. Fear meant they were awake.

In the war room, I studied maps: not of territory, but influence. Every contact Valentina had. Every name that sent her flowers. Every gossip account she fed from behind burner phones. I highlighted them in red. And one by one, I planned how to starve her network until it begged to defect.

By afternoon, Matteo walked in and placed a small file on the table.

“Background on her last private meeting,” he said. “Three of the five attendees canceled future appointments.” I opened the file. Photos. Schedules. Weaknesses.

I smiled. “Let her lose more than control,” I said. “Let her lose everything.”

My phone rang. I stared at the name flashing across my screen, half expecting it to disappear. For years—months, even—she’d stood firmly behind Valentina. Mocked me. Sabotaged me. Treated me like an intruder who’d dirtied the family crest.

Gianna.

Now she was calling again?

I answered without a word.

Her voice came through—tight, clipped, and far too calm to be genuine. “Valentina’s lost control.”

I stayed silent.

“She’s unraveling,” Gianna continued. “Threatening allies. Buying silence. Screaming at advisors during brunches where cameras are still rolling. She’s going to bury the family name in scandal if someone doesn’t stop her.”

Ah.

There it was. Not concerned. No remorse. Just imagine. Reputation. Optics.

Gianna hadn’t had a change of heart. She’d had a shift in leverage.

“I warned her,” Gianna muttered, more to herself than to me. “Told her not to go after you publicly. Not like this. But she wouldn’t listen. She thinks tantrums are a strategy.”

And Gianna hated nothing more than a woman who made power look undignified.

“She’s making us look desperate,” she said finally. “And you—”

“What about me?” I asked, voice cold.

“You’ve stayed quiet. Dignified. You’ve won the court without raising your voice.” She paused, and in that pause I heard what she wasn’t saying.

You’ve become untouchable. And I’m trying to survive.

“She’s going to drag us all down with her,” Gianna said.