What They Don’t Know

Valeria

Nico stood shifting by the door, scratching his neck. He looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked away. He didn’t want to say it. But he had to. “Dante says for me to tell you,” he mumbled, “you shouldn’t be working right now.”

I cocked my head to the side, willing him to continue. “He said … and I’m quoting here,” he said, with a half shrug, “‘Tell her I don’t want a cripple for a subordinate. ” My brows lifted slightly.

“Oh,” I said flatly. “How charming.”

Nico winced. “He’s… Dante. You know how he is.”

“Cold, arrogant, does the thinking with muscle not mind?”

“I did not say that,” he replied, and it was to his credit that he did not smile. I did though. A little.

“I’ll sleep,” I said, gesturing at the door. “You’ve delivered the royal decree. Consider your mission complete.” He paused, then studied me one final time, looking for a deeper crack in me. Not finding it, he nodded and silently departed. The door clicked shut. And the instant it happened, I allowed the thought in my mind to twirl.

“Cripple, huh?” I whispered, and then broke into a little soft laugh. “What a king.” I walked up to the mirror and stared into it — at myself, the girl who didn’t stop at gunfire anymore, the girl who didn’t bleed fear. Dante Moretti didn’t have a clue what he was getting himself into.

Shaking my head, I laughed quietly to myself. “You arrogant bastard,” I muttered. “You think you’re in charge. You think you’re the puppeteer. But I’ve been dancing this dance since the day I was dragged into your kingdom.”

I turned sideways and loosened my gown a little so I could see the white bandage around my hand. It was tight. A little too tight. Because the injury? Wasn’t an accident. I perched on the edge of the bed and carefully peeled the several layers of clean bandage off my hand to expose the healing gash running along my palm. Nothing deep enough to cause lasting harm. But deep enough to bleed convincingly. To make a scene. To win sympathy. To earn their shock. And more importantly—their trust. I looked at the pink, angry skin underneath, and grinned to myself. Pain was temporary. Position, permanent. That was the law of my world, now.

In those days — when I was Valeria, the heiress, the winemaker, the daughter — my hands were only ever filled by crystal glasses and silver pens. My adversaries were silent, cloaked in boardroom smiles and behind the hand compliments. Now, my enemies were enemies of a more direct kind — men with guns and knives and necks too thick for their own good. But the battlefield hadn’t changed. Only the weapons had. I sat back, against the wall, head tip back as I closed my eyes, the memory playing behind them.

Flashback – Hours Earlier

The glass had fallen from the table in the confusion. It exploded a few inches from me. Everyone had been shouting too much, guns out, adrenaline blazing. But I saw it. The shard. Long, clean, and sharp. Do it, my mind whispered. They’re watching. I had already proved my loyalty by sticking around. But if I bled for them? What if I displayed risk, not just resilience? Then I wouldn’t be tolerated. I’d be trusted. So I picked it up—held it—and when the guard held me in his grip I buried it just right into my own flesh. The pain was sharp. But the scream that followed?

That was real. They never suspected a thing. I opened my eyes, and felt a bitter smile on my lips. “They think I’m breaking,” I muttered to myself, staring at the ingury. “They believe I’m trying to prove something. And maybe I was. But not to them. To me. To the girl who started out so tender she believed in family. In loyalty. In promises. That girl was gone. I got up and went to the window. Outside, the night was dense, the moon dim behind clouds. I looked in the glass, but I couldn't see the garden. I saw faces. Blank, cold, more in love with money than motherhood.

My father's trudging around me, always disdainful of my being, always ready to bargain me away for gold. Lorenzo. My brother. My blood. He had been smiling when they’d sold me. Not just signed the contract. Smiled. And then… Dante. The man who had pulled me out of the ashes to imprison me in a different kind of ruin.

He was no savior. My fingers curled into a fist, and I grimaced at the sting in my palm — but I carried on. “One day,” I murmured through a narrowed gaze, you’ll all regret the day you made me bleed.”

“My mother. That wretched, spineless doll.”

“My father. That coward in a suit.”

“Lorenzo…” My teeth ground together. “And you, Dante Moretti,” I snarled.

“You think I’m some kind of puppet in your empire. You think I’m here to take orders, to survive.”

I folded my hand into a fist once more, despite the pain, the blood trickling slowly from under my bandage. “I’m not here to survive.” I inched toward the window until all I saw was my eyes.

“I’m here to destroy.”

---

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not even close. At that point, I slid from the bed, put on a sweater over my night dress and tiptoed away through the shadowy hallways until I was outdoors. The night air brushed against my face, cool and gentle. I followed the stone path which bristled underneath my footsteps and arrived at the pool at the back of the house. The water was shining in the moonlight and it was so still. Too perfect. I’d already perched at the edge, knees to chest, and I allowed the silence to hover around me. The cool tiles under me kept me steady—reminded me that I was here. Still breathing. Still fighting. But my heart wasn’t as steady.

Master…

Was he looking at me wherever he was? I used to believe in that. That those who loved you never really went away — that they watched, even from the grave. But now, I wasn’t sure. Would he be proud of me? Would he even know the woman I was becoming? Or would he see me and see nothing but rage? I closed my eyes, my throat clenched.

He had offered me more than safety. He’d given me a place. A purpose. I blinked and stared once more at the calm water.

“Do you see me now?” I whispered. “Do you see what I’ve turned into?” The breeze was the only response, gentle against my skin. My free hand swept across the bandage around my palm and the sting was back at the call of my memory. “I’m doing what I have to,” I said quietly. “I wouldn’t do that, if I didn’t have to.”

My thoughts curled in my head—one pain morphing into the next. My family. My brother. My freedom. All taken, piece by piece. The fire in me was no more only hatred. It was longing. Longing to feel whole again. To reclaim what was mine. I bit my lip and closed my eyes again, feeling the breeze ruffle my face like fingers I had once trusted.

“What are you thinking about?” a voice asked suddenly. I froze. It was from behind me — a calm, deep voice way too close. Before I could process it, the words had escaped my lips like a whisper. “I’m thinking about how I can recover everything that has been taken away from me.”

When I ended the sentence, my eyes snapped open. My breath caught. And I whirled around fast, heart pounding in my chest — surprised by who was there.