I didn’t sleep after the box arrived.

Gianna’s hand haunted the room like a scream no one would admit they heard. I stared at the dark lid long after I closed it, long after Luca had taken it away.

That wasn’t just a message.

It was a promise.

By morning, I had the estate locked down. Every hallway swept. Every incoming vehicle searched. Luca rerouted our communications through private channels, and Matteo called in every favor still owed to the Corvattis in Velmorra.

But nothing turned up.

No footage of Valentina. No trail. Just whispers.

Whispers of an abandoned slaughterhouse on the edge of the south district. A place where old enemies used to disappear. A place no one talked about unless they had blood on their hands.

I knew it wasn’t solid intel.

But I went anyway.

The ride there was quiet. Just me, Luca, and one silent guard driving the armored vehicle. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t make speeches. I just watched the skyline of Velmorra pass like a city that had already decided who would survive it.

The slaughterhouse looked like a ghost from a forgotten war: broken windows, rusted beams, dried blood that stained the floor like memories.

We moved carefully. Floor by floor. Luca swept the shadows while I followed the trail—metal shavings, surgical tape, crushed cigarette ends.

Then we heard it. A sound. Not loud. But not silence either. I turned the corner and saw her.

Gianna.

Slumped against a steel column, her arm bandaged in torn fabric, her skin pale, her eyes unfocused. She looked… smaller somehow. Not weak. But stripped. As if arrogance had been carved out of her with the blade that took her hand.

I dropped to my knees beside her.

“Gianna,” I said softly. “Look at me.”

Her eyes fluttered. Recognition wavered across her bruised face. “So… you came,” she rasped.

“I don’t leave things unfinished,” I said.

Her lips twitched. Almost a smirk. “Even me?”

“Even you.”

Luca moved forward, checking the bandages. “We need to move. Now.”

She coughed—blood in it. “She thinks… she thinks I’ll die here.”

I brushed a hand down her cheek. “Then let’s make sure she’s right.”

We brought Gianna back under strict cover. Matteo exploded when he saw her—rage and relief clashing in one breath. “

You could’ve been ambushed,” he roared. “You went into a death trap.”

“She was still alive,” I said. “And Valentina sent me her hand like I was supposed to watch her die from afar.”

Matteo looked away.

Because he knew.

Gianna had made her bed. But even traitors didn’t deserve to bleed out alone on concrete.

“She gets medical,” I said. “Private. Guarded. Then we send her to Don Vittorio. Not a word to the press. Let Valentina think she succeeded.”

“What about the men who did this?” Luca asked.

I looked at him. “We bury them. One by one. Loudly.”

And we did. By noon, the city had heard about a hit on a mercenary safehouse tied to the Morelli remnants. No survivors. No fingerprints.

Valentina wanted blood?

I was about to flood her streets with it.

But she didn’t wait long to answer back.

Smoke curled above the docks like grief. Thick and black, it painted the sky with mourning. Twenty million in losses. Several injured. Some of our best security were in the hospital. Two others didn’t make it.

Flames had barely cooled before Matteo’s voice rang through the estate: sharp, furious, thunderous.

He punched the war table. “We were warned!” he shouted. “We had intel!”

But fury doesn’t reverse time, and grief doesn’t rebuild what’s lost.

I stood at the window, arms folded, watching the last embers fade in the distance.

“This isn’t war,” I said quietly. “It’s desperation. She knows she’s losing.”

Luca stood beside me, flipping through damage reports. “Then why does it still feel like she’s winning?”

“Because we’re still bleeding,” I said. “But she’s already rotting. She just hasn’t smelled the decay yet.”

That silenced the room. Even Matteo stopped pacing.

The next morning, I visited the injured.

No press. No performance. Just quiet rooms and promises I never made lightly. One of the guards—Mikel—had burns trailing down his neck and chest. He tried to sit up when I entered.

“Stay,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You saved the north gate. You protected the future.”

His eyes watered.

Mine didn’t. Not in that room.

Then came the families. They wanted answers. Reassurance. Money. I gave them all three.

By afternoon, I stood before the press: no makeup, no jewelry. Just clean black lines and a steel voice.

“This attack wasn’t against the Corvattis,” I said. “It was against Velmorra’s future. And it failed.”

The line spread like fire.

#VelmorraWon trended within hours. Shopkeepers displayed the clip on loops. Pundits argued what it meant. But the public had decided. They didn’t want chaos anymore.

They wanted clarity.

And I had given it to them.

Dante stood beside me during the speech. Quiet. Stoic. Relevant again.

I allowed it.

Not because he deserved a second chance—but because he knew how to be silent when I needed it most.

Luca remained behind me. Solid. Steady. Like he was waiting for the next blow.

It came that night.

A letter. Hand-delivered. Red wax seal. No signature. But I didn’t need one.

The handwriting was sharp and elegant.

Valentina.

The message?

“Meet me. One-on-one. No guards. No guns. Woman to woman.”

Matteo exploded. “Absolutely not.”

Luca crossed his arms. “It’s a trap.”

Even Dante stepped forward. “She’s unhinged.”

I didn’t flinch. I read the letter again. Each word reeked of someone who’d run out of allies and wanted to die with dignity.

“I’ll go,” I said.

The room erupted.

“You’ll die,” Luca snapped.

I met his eyes.

“Not if I kill her first.”