Blood wasn't thicker than power.
Not in Valentina Scarlatti's world.
The knife Bryan left her still rested beneath her pillow when she woke—cold, untouched, and waiting. Its presence was a whisper in her ear. A reminder. A promise.
Next time, don't come alone.
But Valentina hadn't survived her father's death by being afraid. She survived by becoming the monster they all feared he had once been.
And now, she had a kingdom to rebuild.
⸻
The war council met at noon, in the Vellaro Estate's glass atrium. Sunlight slashed through the panes, turning the floor into patterns of light and blood. Valentina sat at the head of the table, flanked by Nina and a man called Bellamy—her father's old consigliere, now hers.
Bellamy was built like an old cathedral: solid, scarred, and sacred to no one.
"There's movement in the East," he said, voice like gravel dragged over steel. "The Moretti family's been seen negotiating with the Linetti clan. That's an alliance your father would've crushed before breakfast."
Valentina tapped her fingers on the polished wood. "He's dead. And they know I'm untested."
"They're testing your silence, not your strength," Nina said. "Start cutting tongues."
Valentina smirked. "Soon."
But Bellamy pressed forward. "You need to show them something. Something ruthless. They're looking for blood."
She stood, crossing to the window.
"Then let them see it."
⸻
Later that evening, Valentina rode through the streets of the city in a matte black Aston Martin, tinted windows hiding her from the world she once ruled from a distance.
Now, she was in the thick of it.
She wasn't headed to a gala or a mansion.
She was going underground.
To the Black Market Pit.
The place her father forbade her from ever setting foot in.
The Pit wasn't just for illegal trading—it was the beating heart of the underworld's darkest pleasures. A twisted arena where information was currency and blood sport ruled.
Tonight, she walked in alone.
Heels clicking on the metal stairs, eyes all on her. Even the fights stopped momentarily.
It was the Scarlatti pendant around her neck that made them stare—but it was the look in her eyes that made them bow their heads.
She wasn't her father's daughter anymore.
She was his heir.
⸻
"Thought you'd be taller," said a voice behind her.
Valentina turned to see a woman with a shaved head, one black glove, and a scar splitting her top lip. They called her Leona—a broker of secrets.
"I'm exactly tall enough," Valentina replied.
Leona smirked. "Rumor is you're bleeding power. That you're losing ground."
"And what do you believe?" Valentina asked, stepping closer.
"I believe power bleeds until it stains everything it touches."
Valentina leaned in. "Then I hope you brought bleach."
Leona laughed, but her eyes sharpened.
"I have information. But it's not free."
"It never is."
"A hit has been ordered," Leona said. "On you. And not by the Morettis."
Valentina's spine straightened. "Who?"
Leona's mouth curled. "Someone inside your estate. Someone close."
Valentina's blood turned cold.
Not because she was surprised.
But because she already suspected who.
⸻
Back at Vellaro Estate, Valentina didn't sleep.
Instead, she watched the footage from the surveillance room. Hours of silent, grainy video.
And there he was.
Niko.
The boy she raised from the streets. The one who swore fealty to her father at ten, who took beatings for information, who carved loyalty into his own skin.
She watched him step into a dark corridor outside her quarters.
She watched him talk to someone—someone with their face hidden in shadow.
And she watched the money exchange hands.
Her throat went dry.
"Bryan warned me," she whispered.
But she didn't want to believe it.
Could Niko really betray her?
Or was this another trap?
She needed the truth. And she needed it now.
⸻
She found Niko in the courtyard, training with knives.
He looked up, breathless and grinning like the boy he used to be.
"Val," he said, using the name only he dared speak.
But Valentina didn't smile.
"You've been meeting someone," she said calmly.
Niko's expression faltered. "What are you talking about?"
"I saw the footage."
His eyes widened—not with guilt, but with panic.
"Wait, it's not what you think."
"Then explain it."
"I was trying to protect you." He stepped forward, voice desperate. "They offered me money to poison your wine. I didn't take it. I took the money to make them think I did. So I could trace the buyer. I was coming to tell you tonight."
She studied his face. The quiver in his voice. The tremor in his hands.
It could be a lie.
But it felt like truth.
"Who?" she asked.
Niko hesitated. "Bellamy."
The name hit like a bullet to the ribs.
"Bellamy is my consigliere," she said.
"He was your father's consigliere. He's working with the Morettis to remove you—he says your blood is thin. That you're too emotional."
Valentina's nails dug into her palm.
"I'll show him emotion," she whispered.
⸻
Later that night, Valentina stood before her father's old portrait.
A man of fire and shadow, forever watching.
"I'm not you," she said aloud.
"And I don't want to be."
She turned.
"I'll be worse."