Naples, Italy
2:17 p.m.
The bullet that ended Don Marco Velliano's reign didn't come from across a battlefield. It came from a champagne glass clinking against his own, inside a room full of men he trusted.
He didn't fall with a roar, like the legend he was.
He simply blinked once, tasted blood, and slumped in his leather chair as the sound of violins drowned out the gasps.
The orchestra played on. The wine kept pouring. And the men who smiled at his corpse thought they had won.
They thought the empire would fall with the king.
But outside, in the heart of Naples, his daughters already knew. The phone call never came,because it didn't need to. They felt it.
Nicolette was the first to stand, her heels clicking through the marble floors of the family estate. Her face gave nothing. Her orders were swift.
Rhea ended a business dinner with a senator, wiping her red lips on a silk napkin before disappearing into the night like a ghost.
Gianna was in a street fight when the world shifted. She smiled mid-punch, as if she'd been waiting for war all her life.
The Velliano sisters did not cry.
They did not mourn.
They inherited hell,and sharpened their knives.
Within twenty-four hours, ten men were dead. Three safe houses were set ablaze. And the streets whispered a new name in fear:
Le Figlie del Don.
The Daughters of the Don.