Smoke curled from the valley below. Screams were already fading, reduced to the occasional gunshot or wet gurgle. The scent of blood, burnt gunpowder, and scorched fur clung to the air like a second skin.
At the edge of the ridge, Ciro squatted low, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the object in his hand.
A ring.
Heavy. Ancient. Engraved with the wolf sigil of the D'Aragon patriarchs.
Still wet with his father's blood.
His fingers toyed with it absently, turning it over in the moonlight. The gold caught the silver glow just right, casting strange reflections across his face.
He didn't cry. Didn't speak.
He just... sat there.
A bloodstained statue at the border of war and legacy.
Then, slowly... he slid the ring onto his finger.
It clicked into place like a key turning in a lock.
Behind him, boots crunched softly against the gravel. Two Blood Hounds approached-Donata and Rafaelo-silent, deliberate.
They stopped a few feet behind him.
Didn't speak.
Didn't dare.
The boy who knelt there, soaked in gore, wasn't just Ciro anymore.
He was Alpha.
And something in the air knew it.
After a moment, Ciro spoke. His voice low, calm... but dripping with the weight of what he'd just done.
> "He spat on the bloodline. Tried to erase our name... like my father was nothing."
He stood slowly, shoulders square, the ridge wind catching his coat like a cape made of shadows.
He didn't turn.
> "Now the name lives on. Through me."
Another pause.
Then he looked at the ring again-this time with ownership.
> "Tell the others," he said. "The docks are ours. The hill is ours. The blood is paid."
He finally turned, his golden eyes fierce but clear, landing on Donata and Rafaelo.
> "But I don't want loyalty out of fear.
I want loyalty that chooses me... or walks."
Donata's eyes widened slightly.
Rafaelo blinked, then gave a slow, reverent nod.
And just like that... they knelt.
Not to tradition.
Not to fear.
To him.
To Ciro D'Aragon.
Alpha reborn.
3:18 AM
He moved to the bathroom-an expanse of black marble and cold luxury. The tub filled behind him, steam curling in the air like ghosts.
But he didn't get in.
Not yet.
He stood before the mirror, dripping in blood and sweat and victory, staring at himself. Unblinking.
Golden eyes stared back.
Not the glowing flicker of rage from earlier.
No-natural. Permanent. Untouched.
The kind of gold that didn't fade after the shift. The kind only the true alphas bore.
He reached slowly for the contact lens case near the sink... and then stopped. Fingers hovered. Breath heavy. Body tense.
> Fuck the mask.
He slid the ring onto his finger instead-Aurelian's ring. Blood still crusted in its carvings.
The weight of it hit different now.
His reflection was a beast in silk skin-tall, carved, tribal scars running down his torso like stories etched by the gods. His jawline was blood-specked, his lips swollen from the last fight, and his throat... bitten.
He smirked darkly.
Valenti. D'Aragon. One bloodline now.
His mother's voice came back to him like a whisper between walls. "They'll never let you be both."
But here he was.
The bastard prince.
The unwanted heir.
The fucking king now.
He turned from the mirror and stepped into the tub-no hesitation, no ceremony. Just a hiss of steam as hot water kissed his skin and traced the path of his scars.
He sank in, spread out, and rested his head back. Bottle of Barolo in one hand, middle finger up to the world in the other.
.....
D'Aragon Global HQ, Executive Boardroom - 9:00 AM
The boardroom was a temple of glass, steel, and cold ambition.
Twenty executives sat around a long obsidian table, dressed in tailored suits and silk arrogance. The D'Aragon conglomerate had hands in shipping, oil, real estate, bio-weapons, and enough shell companies to fund three global wars without raising suspicion.
But today? Today they were nervous.
Aurelian D'Aragon was dead.
Slaughtered on Devil's Ridge.
And the wolves were howling.
"We must elect a new CEO immediately," barked Gianni Morello, head of international operations. "The market's watching. We can't let this chaos spread."
"There are protocols," another snapped. "Aurelian didn't name a successor. It goes to the board."
"Then I nominate myself-"
The doors exploded open.
Literally.
The hinges ripped from their bolts as they slammed into the marble walls, and in walked Ciro-half-buttoned shirt, tattoos licking up his neck, a lazy swagger in his step like the building already belonged to him.
Behind him, the Bloodhounds followed-Donata, Rafaelo, and three others. Dressed in black. Guns holstered. Eyes colder than the grave.
Every board member froze.
Ciro didn't speak.
Didn't ask.
Didn't even look at them.
He just walked to the head of the table and sat down in Aurelian's seat. Legs wide. One arm slung lazily over the chair. He poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter at the center, took a sip, and smirked.
"You're not authorized to be here!" someone snapped.
"You think you can walk in here like some street rat and take over?"
"You're not even full D'Aragon-your mother was a Valenti whore!"
Ciro just blinked. One golden eye glinted beneath his lashes as he looked up-bored, relaxed, but undeniably wolf.
Then he spoke, calm as sin.
> "If you're loyal... shut up."
Silence.
For ten seconds.
One.
Two.
Three...
Then Morello scoffed, stood up, and said, "This is a board meeting, not a kennel. We'll never accept some bastard alpha as our-"
> "Kill them."
Ciro didn't raise his voice.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even look at the Bloodhounds.
But they moved.
Fast.
Brutal.
Gunfire erupted in the boardroom, muffled by silenced barrels. Chairs toppled. Blood painted the glass walls. Screams cut short. It was surgical, feral... and over in thirteen seconds.
Only eight of the twenty executives remained. The rest were slumped over leather chairs, bleeding out onto the floor of the most powerful corporate empire in Monte Valenti.
Ciro stood slowly. Glass still in hand.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out over the city skyline-sunlight bouncing off his golden eyes like fire through whiskey.
He took another sip.
> "Let's get to work."
.....
Midtown, 10th Floor of Pulse Weekly Publishing - 10:13 AM
The office smelled like cheap coffee, burnt toner, and despair.
Papers were everywhere. Phones rang nonstop. Air conditioners wheezed like dying lungs. And at the far end of the bullpen, buried behind a cluttered desk and a glowing monitor, sat Serena Alessi-twenty-five, exhausted, and dangerously close to a mental breakdown.
She slumped in her chair, dark curls spilling out of a messy bun. Her cinnamon-toned skin glistened with sweat from the broken AC, and her shirt (two buttons open, because screw dress codes) was half-tucked into pants that had seen better days.
There were three pens tucked behind one ear.
A fourth one was in her mouth.
She hadn't even noticed.
Her hazel eyes-warm, observant, maybe a little defiant-stared blankly at the flashing screen.
> [URGENT] You've got the D'Aragon piece. You screw this up, you're DONE.
–MIRIAM
Miriam was her boss.
Also known as Lucifer in kitten heels.
Serena groaned and let her head thump against the keyboard.
Hard.
"Why me?" she muttered to the ceiling. "I cover book expos, not mafia royalty."
Across the room, interns were giggling. Some guy from sports gave her a pitying thumbs-up. Meanwhile, she wanted to disappear into the floorboards.
The D'Aragon family wasn't just a rich dynasty-they were a power syndicate wrapped in luxury suits and whispered horror stories. And their new head? No one even knew who the hell he was. There were rumors: blood rituals, murder, wolves in the hills... All she had were vague tips and three blurry photos of a ridiculously hot man with a gun in one hand and a wine glass in the other.
"Oh yeah, this'll go well," she mumbled.
She closed her eyes, trying not to scream.
The city was falling apart, she hadn't slept properly in two weeks, rent was due, and now she had to go shake hands with a monster in a Gucci coat.