Valentina had gone underground. Not vanished—just buried herself in the city’s underbelly, where debts ran deeper than blood and loyalty came with a price tag.

She wasn’t working alone.

Reports came in slow and fragmented, but the pattern was clear: she was surrounding herself with men who used to carry the Morelli name like a badge: former enforcers, private guards, ex-soldiers with bruised egos and vendettas simmering beneath their skin. Men who remembered the days when her last name still opened doors, and who hated watching me close them.

Alongside them: hired mercenaries. Professionals. The kind of ghosts who left no trail, just blood.

How was she funding it?

Through the one thing the Morellis couldn’t touch—her trust fund, left behind by her late father. It had been locked away, untouched for years, until recently. She’d liquidated assets. Sold off old properties in Milan, jewelry from the private vault, even a yacht once gifted by a foreign dignitary. She wasn’t just desperate—she was burning legacy to buy loyalty.

And it was working. Sort of.

With that money, she offered more than most families could afford—contracts with no questions, bonuses for betrayal, security for anyone willing to turn their back on the Corvattis.

But none of it bought her the thing she wanted most: power that lasted.

Because while she hid beneath the city, I stood above it.

“She’s building something,” Luca said as he paced beside the war table. “Or burning it all down.” He tossed a file across the table, and photos scattered like ash—grainy shots of crates, weapons, gatherings in the old rail tunnels. I studied every image, not for faces, but for patterns. Movement. Gaps.

“She’s not hiding,” I said. “She’s preparing.”

That same night, I called a meeting. Matteo sat at the head. Luca beside him. Our top strategists filled the circle: silent, tight-lipped, waiting for the verdict I hadn’t yet voiced. I stood, hands steady, eyes sharper than ever.

“She’s going to attack,” I said. “We just don’t know where.”

No one disagreed. That was the danger. She wasn’t lashing out. She was planning. Like me.

Later that evening, I got the message. Private. Unmarked.

Four words: Let me help. – D.

Dante.

Of course. I didn’t respond at first. But something about the timing—it reeked of desperation, not deception. I told Matteo nothing. I met him alone.

The warehouse was cold. Empty except for dust, crates, and ghosts. Dante stood near the center like he didn’t know whether to wait or beg. I walked in without ceremony.

“Why would I trust the man who left me bleeding?” I asked.

“Because I’m bleeding now too,” he said. “And I know what it feels like to watch everything you built burn down from the inside.” His jaw was clenched. His eyes weren’t pleading. They were wrecked. Broken in ways that didn’t beg for mercy.

He handed me a folder. No promise. Just facts. Names. Drop points. Weapon caches. Notes scribbled in shorthand I hadn’t seen since the early Morelli days.

“She’s out of control,” he said. “You think you know her rage, but this… this is something else.”

I flipped through the pages. My fingers didn’t tremble. But something inside me did twist. Not from fear. From calculation. This wasn’t just rebellion. It was war. And she wasn’t planning to win. She was planning to devastate.

“I’ll take her down myself,” Dante swore, voice low. I closed the folder.

“No,” I said. “I will.”

He just lowered his head. Because in that moment, even he understood—this was my vendetta. My crown. My fire to control or be consumed by.

The silence after the guard’s words was worse than the blast itself. Half our supply lines—gone. It echoed like a death toll. Matteo stood slowly, his face granite.

“How?” he asked. The guard swallowed. “Explosives. Planted in freight two days ago. Timed detonation. Minimal witnesses.”

My jaw clenched. She hadn’t just hit us. She’d timed it with precision. She wanted it to sting.

Luca stepped beside me. “This wasn’t spontaneous,” he said. “She’s been planning this for weeks.”

I nodded once. “No. Longer.”

Every move she made was a mirror—distorted, but familiar. I knew the way her mind spiraled when cornered. I had lived that spiral. But she wasn’t clawing upward. She was digging down, and dragging everything with her.

The allies in the room were already speaking in low voices, debating countermeasures. Trade redirection. Political outreach. Asset replacement. I held up one hand.

“No scrambling,” I said. “No panic.” They stopped. I stepped forward. “We bleed, but we don’t break. And she will think this hit shattered us. Good. Let her think it.”

Matteo gave me a look—half caution, half pride. “You want to draw her out.”

I didn’t blink. “I want her to think she’s ahead.”

Luca folded his arms. “What if she hits us again before we can do anything?”

I shrugged, calm. “Then we bleed,” I said. “But we make it look like we meant to.”

That night, I stared out the east window of the estate. The docks were still burning—embers flickering like dying stars. Valentina didn’t just want power. She wanted legacy. She wanted to rewrite the story where I was the mistake and she was the weapon. But she forgot one thing. I built my empire on blood too.

Dante texted once after the meeting. Just two words: I’m sorry.

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t believe him—but because belief wasn’t currency anymore. Action was. And he’d finally chosen a side. Even if it came too late to save what we once were.

In the war room, I circled drop points. Contacts. Marked the maps he gave me against our own intel. He hadn’t lied. The names were real. The files matched. Luca entered quietly.

“You’re still awake,” he said.

“I didn’t notice I slept,” I replied.

He walked over slowly. “If she touched the docks,” he said, “she’s going to move on distribution next.”

“Then we close the roads,” I said. “And bait her into thinking we’re shifting cargo east.”

He watched me for a moment. “You’re calm,” he said. “Too calm.”

I turned to him. “I’m not calm,” I whispered. “I’m clear.”

And clarity, I had learned, was sharper than fury. More dangerous than revenge. Because it doesn’t blink.

Matteo entered hours later. He didn’t speak at first. Just poured coffee into two steel mugs and handed me one. “We rebuild tomorrow,” he said. “Quietly.”

I nodded. “And we strike the day after.” He smiled then. Just barely.

“You always had your mother’s sense for timing.” I didn’t smile back.

The call came just after sunset.

I was reviewing trade contracts, one eye on the maps, when my phone buzzed once—then again. Persistent. Demanding. The screen flashed a name I hadn’t seen in a while.

Dante.

I answered without emotion. “What?”

His voice was tight. Strained. “She’s gone.”

I straightened. “Who?”

“Gianna.” The way he said it—flat, controlled—told me everything I needed to know. He’d already checked every logical explanation and come up empty.

“She didn’t show for her morning meeting. Her guards lost track of her sometime after midnight. No witnesses. No footage. Nothing.”

I blinked once. “You’re telling me Gianna Morelli vanished in Velmorra without a trace?”

“I think Valentina found out she was working with you,” he said. “And I think she made her pay for it.”

A beat of silence stretched between us. Then I stood.

“Put out a city-wide search,” I ordered. “Check hospitals, morgues, every black market back alley in this cursed city. She might not be an ally, but she’s under my protection now. And I don’t tolerate losing what’s mine.”

“She’s not the woman you think she is,” Dante said quietly.

“No,” I replied. “She’s the woman who made you. And Valentina just crossed the last line she’ll ever be allowed to.”

I ended the call without waiting for his reply.

By nightfall, the news was worse. No sightings. No digital trail. Nothing.

Gianna Morelli—Velmorra’s queen of ice and judgment—had disappeared without a sound. And Don Vittorio came down with a heart attack, sick with worry for his wife.

Luca stood by the war table, his brow furrowed as he scanned the incoming reports.

“She wouldn’t go quietly,” he said. “If she had a choice.”

“She didn’t,” I answered. “This wasn’t a warning shot. This was personal.”

Even Matteo looked troubled. “We underestimated how far Valentina would go. She’s not fighting for power anymore.”

“No,” I said coldly. “She’s fighting out of spite. And that’s when people become dangerous.”

It was nearly midnight when the knock came. Three slow taps. Not a signal. Not a guard rotation. Something else.

I crossed the hall in silence. No security detail. No advisors. Just me and the feeling that something had shifted.

When I opened the door, one of the outer gate guards stood there—pale, wide-eyed, holding a heavy black box wrapped in a satin ribbon that had been dipped in something dark. Almost red.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

“What is it?” I asked.

His voice cracked. “It was left at the north gate. No name. No messenger. Just this.”

He tried to hand it to me, but his hands trembled.

“I’ll take it,” I said softly.

He nodded and stepped back like the box itself might burn him. I shut the door gently. Carried it to the marble table in the center of the study. And opened it.

The smell hit first.

Sharp. Metallic. Decay barely masked by perfume.

Inside: a hand.

Severed clean at the wrist. Pale fingers curled in a final, frozen twitch. A diamond ring still on the fourth finger—the Morelli family crest etched into the band.

Gianna’s ring. Gianna’s hand. Tucked beside it was a note. Just one line, scrawled in blood-red ink across ivory paper:

For The Queen Who Thinks She Is Untouchable – V