The De Luca estate never slept. Even in the depths of night, shadows moved like sentries—men in black suits murmuring into radios, vehicles gliding silently along gravel paths, lights shifting behind tinted glass. Power didn't rest, especially not here.
And Serena Vale was beginning to learn that power had a scent. Sharp. Clean. Cold as steel. It clung to every surface of the villa, woven into the silk sheets she slept on and the wine she wouldn't drink. Power draped itself over Matteo De Luca like a second skin—and tried to coil itself around her like a noose.
She didn't let it.
Not in the three days since she'd woken up a captive bride, not even after Mara explained the legal trap she'd been signed into. Marriage documents. Fingerprints. Surveillance footage staged to show her walking into the private marriage suite under her own will. It was airtight.
But Serena wasn't stupid.
There were holes in Matteo's story. She could feel them. And tonight, she intended to find one.
---
The library was easy enough to locate. The guards didn't follow her indoors—only watched from a distance. It was her only semblance of freedom in the massive stone fortress. And she intended to make use of it.
A cathedral-like space with carved shelves rising two stories tall, the library was full of books so old they smelled of war and ash. But Serena wasn't here to read fiction.
She was searching for truth.
Specifically, any mention of her father.
She ran her fingers along the spines until she reached the section on Sicilian history. There—at the bottom of a dusty stack—she pulled out a leather-bound ledger with no title. Inside, handwritten records in Italian. Births. Deaths. Family alliances.
And there it was.
Lorenzo Valentino — Deceased, 2003.
Beside his name, a symbol.
A red slash through a black crown.
Serena stared at it.
Her father had once ruled something. She wasn't sure what yet, but this symbol wasn't decorative. It meant something. She kept reading.
Known affiliates: Arturo Bianchi, Giovanni De Luca, Rosa Vale.
Her heart stuttered.
Rosa Vale. Her aunt.
Serena gripped the book tighter. The woman who raised her had always been stern, secretive—never affectionate. But she'd protected Serena. Kept her out of boarding school. Kept her in small towns. Kept her quiet.
Now Serena knew why.
She was being hidden.
A shadow passed across the far window.
She looked up quickly—but no one was there.
Still, her pulse jumped. The house had too many corners. Too many secrets in its bones.
She slipped the ledger into the lining of her shawl and stood, but froze when she turned.
Matteo was standing in the doorway.
---
"You shouldn't be here," he said calmly.
His voice held no anger. Just cool disapproval, like a teacher catching a student out of bed.
Serena's pulse still hadn't recovered. "Why? Afraid I'll read the truth?"
"You wouldn't understand what you're reading."
"Try me."
He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
"There are things in this house older than you. Deadlier than you," he said. "Words are one of them."
"I found my father's name," she said, lifting her chin. "He was working with your father. And with Arturo Bianchi."
Matteo's jaw tensed. "You know nothing about Bianchi."
"Then tell me," she snapped. "Tell me why I was taken. Tell me why my father died and why I'm now living in a palace full of men with guns."
A long silence.
Then, softly, Matteo said, "Because you're the last piece of a war your family started. And the only way to end it."
Serena stared at him. "You said you wanted peace. That this marriage was to settle the blood between us."
His eyes darkened. "It was."
"Was?" she echoed. "So what is it now?"
Matteo moved closer, and the tension between them tightened like a string pulled to breaking.
"Now, it's insurance," he said. "Because Arturo Bianchi wants your bloodline erased. And I'm the only thing standing in the way of that."
She swallowed. "Why does he want me dead?"
"Because your father betrayed him. And because your existence proves that the Valentino legacy isn't finished."
"And you care why?"
Matteo's expression shifted—just a flicker.
"I don't," he lied.
But he did. She saw it.
"Then let me go," she challenged. "If I'm just a name—let me disappear again."
His hand moved—just barely. Not toward her. Not in threat. Just... twitching.
"I can't," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because you're mine now." His voice dropped lower. "And no one takes what's mine."
---
Later that night, Serena stood by the window in her chambers, watching the rain start again.
Every night since her arrival, the skies opened up. The staff said it was just seasonal. But she wondered. There was a weight to this place—something ancient, heavy, pressing. Like grief.
She turned from the window and saw the package lying on the bed.
Wrapped in black velvet.
No note.
She opened it carefully.
Inside, a necklace.
Gold. Heavy. An old family crest carved into a pendant: a lion crowned with thorns.
Beneath it, a piece of folded paper.
One line.
Wear it tomorrow. You will meet the council.
---
Morning came far too quickly.
Mara helped her dress in a black satin gown, her hair swept into a low twist. Serena felt like she was dressing for her own funeral.
When they reached the south wing, Matteo was waiting. Sharp in a charcoal suit, clean-shaven, his expression unreadable.
He didn't speak as they walked side by side through a long corridor of stone arches and stained-glass windows.
He didn't speak as the guards opened a heavy wooden door engraved with lions and daggers.
Inside, ten men stood in a semi-circle around a long obsidian table. Each of them bore signs of power—scarred knuckles, gray streaks in black hair, suits that cost more than her entire childhood.
They looked at her like she was a statue.
Matteo's voice cut the silence. "Gentlemen, allow me to formally introduce my bride."
One of them stepped forward. Arturo Bianchi.
His gaze was sharp, too still.
"So the rumors are true," he said. "Valentino's bastard daughter, raised in silence."
Serena didn't flinch. "And yet here I am."
The men murmured.
Arturo's eyes narrowed. "You look like your father. That same smug expression."
"She's here to represent peace," Matteo said.
Arturo snorted. "Or she's here to inherit what was never hers. I warned you, Matteo. Mixing bloodlines only poisons both."
"Careful," Matteo said, voice like steel. "You forget who sits at the head of this table."
"No," Arturo said, stepping forward, "I remember. But I also remember what your father did to get there. And how many bodies were buried to keep it quiet."
Matteo didn't move.
Serena's heart pounded. She didn't know the full history, but the tension in the room was undeniable.
Bianchi turned back to her.
"Wear that crest proudly, girl. It might be the last thing keeping your head on your shoulders."
Then he left.
The others followed.
Serena stood in the silence, hands clenched.
Matteo finally looked at her.
"You did well."
She turned on him. "You let him threaten me."
"He won't touch you."
"He already has."
Matteo stepped close. "He wants you dead. But as long as you're my wife, he won't dare move. That's the game."
"I'm not a piece."
He didn't flinch. "You're not. But you're part of the board now."
She stared at him. "How many more secrets are you keeping from me?"
His eyes darkened. "Enough to keep you alive."
---
That night, Serena opened the leather-bound ledger again.
She found a page at the very back—half-torn, ink faded with time.
A line stood out, hastily scrawled in a different hand.
Matteo owes me a life. When he comes for her, remind him.
It was signed: L. Valentino
Her father.
Her throat went dry.
Matteo didn't just know about her father. He owed him.
That changed everything.