Monte Valenti – 9:31 AM
Pulse Weekly Publishing – Editorial Wing
Serena's hands hovered over her keyboard like the truth might bite if she touched it.
The article was in. Clicked, sent, published. It was already gaining traction—Miriam had slapped a "Breaking" tag on it and added just enough clickbait sizzle to get the wolves in the comments howling.
But Serena couldn't breathe.
The air in the office was too thin. Her coffee tasted like rust. Every background noise—phones ringing, someone laughing at a meme, a stapler clicking—felt like it was coming from underwater.
She replayed the interview again.
"Some truths bite," he'd said.
And his voice—God, that voice—it didn't just speak. It carved.
Miriam's door opened with a bang.
"Alessi," she barked, stilettos clicking like gunshots, "my office. Now."
Serena jumped, nearly knocking her lukewarm coffee onto the keyboard. She grabbed her notepad, stuffed her recorder into her blazer pocket, and followed Miriam inside.
The door slammed behind her.
"Let me guess," Serena muttered as she took a seat. "You hated it."
"I loved it." Miriam's eyes sparkled. "It's fire. Sharp. Smart. Sexy as sin."
Serena blinked.
"Oh."
"But now I want more."
There it was.
Miriam leaned forward, red nails drumming on the desk. "That article lit up. It's already on Pulse's front page, and Monte Buzz picked it up. Socials are going nuclear. Hashtag 'AlphaInArmani' is trending."
Serena groaned. "Please tell me they're not making fan edits."
"Oh, honey." Miriam smirked. "They're making thirst traps."
Of course they were.
Miriam's expression turned deadly serious. "Ciro D'Aragon is the biggest name in this city—and no one gets that close. You did. I don't know how, and I don't care. But I want a follow-up. Something deeper. Dirtier. Real."
Serena hesitated. "He's... not exactly the kind of guy you ask about taxes and philanthropic ventures."
"Then don't ask him." Miriam smiled. "Dig."
Serena stood slowly. "You want me to blow up the most powerful family in the city?"
"I want you to peel them open," Miriam said, her voice like knives wrapped in perfume. "Start with his father's death. The boardroom takeover. That 'Bloodhound' thing you alluded to. Find me something that'll make Monte Valenti choke on its wine."
Serena opened her mouth to protest, but Miriam was already turning away.
Dismissed.
11:48 AM – Serena's Apartment
The moment she shut the door behind her, Serena leaned against it like the world might stop spinning if she held still long enough.
She didn't know what unnerved her more—the article's success or how much of Ciro still lingered in her bloodstream.
The way he looked at her like she was both prey and puzzle.
The way her pulse liked it.
She dropped her bag on the couch and opened her laptop.
Notifications. Retweets. Article comments flooding in.
She skimmed one:
"This journalist gets it. D'Aragon doesn't walk—he hunts."
Another:
"Hot take: she's sleeping with him."
Her stomach twisted. Not from shame. From the fact that she almost had.
She exhaled sharply and opened her hidden folder—labeled Archives—containing everything she had on the D'Aragon family.
It was thin.
Painfully thin.
And too clean.
Birth records. Corporate filings. Property deeds. Sanitized to hell and back. A fortress of PR polish and expensive erasures.
But there was something her father once told her, back when she still believed in bedtime stories.
"If you want to know what a powerful man fears, don't look at what he owns. Look at what he hides."
So she dug.
And twenty minutes later, she found a whisper.
An old city record—heavily redacted—about a 1995 fire that destroyed part of the Valenti Manor.
The official cause? Electrical malfunction.
But someone had scribbled in the margins.
"No survivors but one. Child. Half-blood. Case sealed by order of…"
The name was blacked out. But Serena knew.
Ciro.
A child. The only survivor.
She stared at the screen, heart thudding. Could that have been the moment the wolves took over?
Her phone buzzed violently.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You should stop digging, Miss Alessi.
She froze.
Another text followed.
You're not the only one with secrets.
D'Aragon Manor – East Wing, 1:07 PM
Ciro stood shirtless in the training hall, hands wrapped in leather, a heavy bag swaying in front of him.
He punched. Hard.
The chain rattled.
Again.
His knuckles split—skin healing just as fast as it tore. Rage buzzed under his skin like static electricity.
He'd read the article twice.
She'd softened the truths. Omitted the worst.
But the bite was still there. Hidden. Clever.
Like her.
"She's smart," Rafaelo had said earlier. "Too smart to be let off the leash."
Ciro didn't respond. He couldn't.
Because the part of him that wasn't calculating, wasn't cold and brutal and blood-sworn—wanted her.
Not just her body. Her scent. Her fire.
He wanted her voice in his hall.
Her footsteps in his house.
Her truth. Even if it burned.
He punched again—this time, the bag burst open, sand bleeding onto the marble floor.
A slow clap echoed behind him.
Donata, in heels and a dark green silk suit, leaned against the wall like a specter of smoke and danger.
"You're bleeding on my floors again, caro."
Ciro rolled his shoulders. "I'll buy you new ones."
She crossed the room in a few clicks of heel and grace, eyes sharp. "I warned you. She's not just press. She's Valenti."
Ciro went still.
"What did you say?"
Donata held up a photo—grainy, black-and-white. Two women. One was clearly Serena's mother.
The other was Donata.
"She was supposed to be dead," she murmured. "But I recognize that bloodline anywhere."
Ciro's throat tightened.
A memory flared—his mother holding him, whispering in a tongue he was too young to understand. Her fire curling around them, keeping the wolves at bay.
A promise.
A curse.
"Serena doesn't know," he said quietly.
Donata nodded. "But the blood always remembers. And when it wakes?"
Her eyes burned.
"So does the war."
2:09 PM – Serena's Apartment
Serena sat frozen, eyes locked on the two texts.
Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up her recorder.
She clicked it on.
"If anything happens to me," she said, voice low but firm, "this story goes to every outlet I've ever written for. The D'Aragon name will burn."
She stopped the recording.
Saved it. Labeled it In Case I Die.
She didn't feel brave.
She felt hunted.
But she also felt closer to something—something dark, ancient, and waiting just beneath the velvet surface of the world.
She looked at the photo again. The burned file. The mirror.
A whisper crossed her mind.
"You have no idea what you are."
Her reflection stared back at her from the laptop screen.
And—for just a second—
Her eyes gleamed.
Crimson.