เข้าสู่ระบบ*Bianca's POV*
I thought knowing would make it hurt less. It would make me finally be at peace.
I was wrong.
Knowing didn’t dull the pain — it sharpened it, gave it edges, gave it names. Knowing meant that every memory of my father now carried a second shadow behind it. Every kindness was suspect. Every silence deliberate.
By the time Vincenzo summoned us to the archive room beneath the estate, my grief had already begun to mutate.
Into focus.
Into rage.
The archive wasn’t meant for comfort. No windows. No art. Just steel cabinets, climate-controlled drawers, and a long table scarred by decades of decisions that had ruined lives.
“This room,” Vincenzo said evenly, “exists
*Bianca's POV*The house was too quiet.Not the tense silence of a war room or the alert stillness of guarded halls — but the kind of quiet that comes after everything has already been said. After truths are laid bare and there is nothing left to shout.Our home.I still wasn’t used to calling it that.The fire in the living room had burned low, embers pulsing softly like a tired heart. Outside, the sea whispered against the cliffs, steady and indifferent to the way my entire world had fractured in the span of days.I sat on the couch with my knees drawn to my chest, staring at nothing.Angelina Siankovski.My mother had lived an entire life before me. A dangerous one. A brilliant one. A doo
*Bianca's POV*The letter haunted me more than the contract.Ink could kill.Signatures could end lives.But words written in grief? Those had a way of surviving everything.She betrayed me.I’d read the line a hundred times over the past months, tracing the indent of my mother’s pen until the paper thinned beneath my fingers. For so long, I’d believed it was the final truth she’d left me — a warning, a judgment, a severed bond.Daniella Volkov.Violet’s mother.The woman whose photograph sat tucked inside a false drawer in Vincenzo’s archive, her arm looped through my mother’s like they w
*Bianca's POV*I thought knowing would make it hurt less. It would make me finally be at peace.I was wrong.Knowing didn’t dull the pain — it sharpened it, gave it edges, gave it names. Knowing meant that every memory of my father now carried a second shadow behind it. Every kindness was suspect. Every silence deliberate.By the time Vincenzo summoned us to the archive room beneath the estate, my grief had already begun to mutate.Into focus.Into rage.The archive wasn’t meant for comfort. No windows. No art. Just steel cabinets, climate-controlled drawers, and a long table scarred by decades of decisions that had ruined lives.“This room,” Vincenzo said evenly, “exists
*Bianca's POV*I didn’t sleep.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother — not as she was in my memories, soft-spoken and distant, but as a stranger wearing her face. A woman with another name. Another bloodline. Another war stitched into her veins.Angelina Siankovski.The name tasted wrong in my mouth. Like a lie I had been forced to swallow my entire life.By morning, my grief had hardened into something sharper.I went looking for Nazyr.I found him where the house ended and the sea began — standing alone on the stone terrace, coat untouched by the wind, gaze fixed on the horizon like he was waiting for something that would never return.“You owe me everything,” I said.He didn’t turn. “I know.”I stepped closer. “Start talking.”Nazyr finally faced me. Up close, the resemblance was undeniable. The same eyes. The same stillness that came before violence. The same way emotions didn’t soften the face — they carved it deeper.“She was younger than me,” he began. “And smarter than
*Bianca's POV*I was done being protected.That was the thought that followed me down the corridor, past the portraits, past the guards who straightened when they saw me, past the door everyone avoided unless summoned.The strategy room.I didn’t knock.Vincenzo looked up first. Nazyr was standing by the window, hands folded behind his back, the sea reflected in the hard lines of his face. Erico was seated near the table, already tense — like he’d felt me coming before he heard my steps.“Stop,” I said.Every movement froze.“No more fragments. No more half-truths,” I continued. “No more deciding what I can and cannot survive.”Vincenzo leaned back slowly. “Bianca—”“My mother was killed,” I cut in. “My father ordered my execution. I was hunted in my sleep and married into a war. Whatever you’re protecting me from no longer exists.”Nazyr turned.His eyes — so like mine it made my chest ache — held something heavy. Old.“You are asking for ghosts,” he said quietly.“I was raised by on
*Bianca's POV*The worst part wasn’t that Antonio had seen me.It was that he had been close enough to notice details.The angle of the terrace.The way the light hit the ring.The timing — not before the marriage, not during, but after.He hadn’t guessed.Someone had told him.The strategy room felt smaller now. Not physically — but emotionally. The walls that had once felt solid seemed suddenly permeable, as if secrets could seep through stone.Vincenzo didn’t raise his voice.That was how I knew things had crossed into something colder.“No one leaves,” he said calmly. “Not staff. Not guards. Not family.”Mario straightened instantly. Giovanni’s humor vanished. Paolo’s expression closed like a door locking from the inside.Erico moved closer to me without thinking. His hand didn’t touch me, but his presence was unmistakable — a shield that didn’t ask permission.“The photo,” Paolo said quietly, holding up the locket. “It was taken from inside the perimeter. That narrows it.”“Not b







