Chapter 52 - Ashes Before The Rise

The grand estate once belonging to Donatello was nothing more than a skeletal ruin.

Smoke curled from cracked windows and broken marble columns, the luxurious symbols of his reign reduced to ash. Talana stood at the heart of the courtyard, her silhouette outlined by the flickering flames still devouring the distant west wing. Around her, Roberto Sanchiano’s soldiers moved methodically, securing the grounds, gathering prisoners.

Massimo Morelli was at her side, a towering figure of cold purpose, his black suit torn at the sleeve but his posture never faltering.

Talana’s gaze landed on Donatello.

He was on his knees, hands bound behind him, his face battered but defiant. The once-flawless businessman, the snake in Italian silk was now a crumpled, bloodied wreck. His lip split in two directions, one eye swelling shut, he still managed a sneer.

“You think this makes you a queen?” he rasped, coughing blood into the dirt. “You’re a whore with a crown you didn’t earn.”

Talana approached, each step deliberate, her heels crunching over broken glass and stone. She stopped before him, her expression carved from ice.

"No," she said, voice low, dangerous. "I am what you made me."

Donatello laughed weakly. “You’re your father’s daughter after all.”

A flicker of something cold and sharp crossed her features. Pablo Fabrizio was dead, the man who had sold her for gambling debts and empty promises. His blood was gone from her veins now. Talana belonged to no man, no past.

She crouched down, eye-level with the man who had once terrorized entire cities with a whisper.

“My father died a coward’s death,” she said softly. “Yours will be slower. You’ll watch everything you built burn to the ground. You’ll watch as I rise.”

Massimo shifted slightly behind her, his watchful silence a steady anchor.

Talana rose and motioned to Lorenzo, who stepped forward with two men.

“Take him to the Sanchiano estate," she ordered. "Keep him alive. Dress him well.”

Donatello struggled, snarling curses as the men hauled him to his feet.

Talana turned away without another glance, already leaving his screams behind.

Tonight wasn't about blood. It was about dominance. It was about making them all watch.

An hour later, at de Marco’s compound,the rain slicked the broken pavement as Gianna moved swiftly through the battered remains of Drake de Marco’s trafficking compound.

The operation had crumbled faster than anyone expected.

Bodies littered the corridors, guards loyal to De Marco who had refused surrender. The children and trafficked girls had already been pulled out, ushered into black SUVs under heavy guard.

Gianna kicked down another door, her heart pounding, her Glock steady. The room was empty, all that remained was the stench of smoke and gunpowder.

“Clear!” she called out, moving toward the main exit. Her boots splashed through puddles darkened by blood.

At the compound gates, Lorenzo waited, his own gun lowered but ready. His gray shirt was stained with grime and rain, but his presence, as always, was calm.

Gianna jogged up to him. “He’s gone. De Marco slipped out.”

Lorenzo’s mouth tightened. “A wounded snake is ver dangerous.”

She shook her head in fury. “We could still track him—”

“Not yet,” he interrupted. His hand came to rest on her lower back, grounding her rage. “Let him feel the walls closing in. Let him sweat. We’ll catch him when the whole world is watching.”

Gianna stared at him for a long beat, the adrenaline burning through her veins. Then she gave a sharp nod.

“At the ball,” she said.

“At the ball,” he confirmed.

Back at the port, Mariano Sanchiano stood there, his coat whipping in the sharp sea wind, the tang of salt and diesel heavy in the air, snd behind him, container after container had been cracked open.

Inside: evidence of horror. Cages, chains, narcotics, black-market goods meant to be shipped halfway across the world.

Mariano lit a cigarette, ignoring the rain. His knuckles were split from the work, but he didn’t care.

“Everything accounted for,” his lieutenant reported. “Nothing leaves these docks without your seal now.”

Mariano blew smoke into the gray sky. “Tell the others. The Sanchiano family controls the waters.”

He ground the cigarette under his boot, a grim smile playing across his face.

The network Drake de Marco and Donatello had relied on was crumbling.

And soon, they would have nowhere left to run.

The Sanchiano estate glowed like a beacon in the dusk.

Floodlights illuminated the sprawling villa and its marble courtyards, while soldiers in black moved like shadows along the perimeter. The scent of burning sage filled the air, a centuries-old ritual to cleanse and prepare for new leadership.

Talana stood in the heart of the grand courtyard, the heavy velvet of her cloak brushing the white stone beneath her boots. Her hair, once wild and free, had been drawn back into a regal twist, crowned with a simple, deadly golden circlet.

Beside her, Roberto Sanchiano watched silently, pride etched into the deep lines of his face.

Tonight would seal it.

Tonight, Talana would become the Dona of the Sanchiano legacy.

Massimo approached from the far side of the courtyard, his presence a thunderclap beneath her ribcage. He wore a tailored black suit, the Morelli insignia at his cuff, a silent pledge of his loyalty to her, and to what she was about to become.

Talana’s hands flexed slightly at her sides.

Was she ready?

Did it matter?

The past had been burned away. Only this future remained.

“Dona Talana,” Roberto said, the title ringing out into the gathering darkness. His voice was strong, proud. “Kneel.”

The courtyard hushed. The soldiers, the lieutenants, the old families, they all watched.

Talana dropped to one knee.

Roberto stepped forward, unsheathing a ceremonial dagger, its blade etched with the history of their bloodline.

“With this blade," he said, "I sever you from the sins of your father. With this blood, I welcome you into ours.”

He drew the tip of the dagger across his palm, letting the blood fall in slow, heavy drops onto the stone before her.

Talana did not flinch.

He then pressed the dagger lightly to her shoulder, the cold kiss of steel burning its promise into her skin.

“You rise not as a girl born of betrayal,” Roberto said, voice hardening, “but as a woman forged by fire.”

Talana rose and the courtyard erupted into cheers, a thunder of voices and fists over hearts.

Massimo stepped forward, taking her hand, bowing his head in respect to his queen.

Roberto’s eyes gleamed. “Tomorrow, at the ball, the world will see you,” he said. “Donatello, De Marco, all of them will bear witness. They will see who you truly are.”

Talana nodded once.

Tomorrow wasn’t just about vengeance. It was about destiny.

Later that night at the Sanchiano Estate, in the Inner Sanctum, Talana stood alone before the mirror in the vast, candlelit dressing chamber.

Her gown for the ball lay draped across the divan: deep crimson velvet, heavy with embroidered black thorns. The mask she would wear rested atop it, a masterpiece of onyx and gold, shaped to frame her sharp cheekbones, leaving only her mouth visible. A mouth that could command armies or destroy empires.

She traced a finger along the mask's edge. This was no costume. This was a weapon.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

She saw him in the mirror before she heard him, the dark, solid form of Massimo Morelli, a shadow of strength and temptation.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said quietly, a wry smile touching his lips.

Talana allowed herself the smallest smile in return. “Is that your professional opinion?”

He crossed the room in three strides, stopping behind her. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, grounding her.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Massimo murmured. “Not of them. Not of what’s coming.”

She tilted her head slightly, her reflection meeting his.

"I’m not afraid," she whispered. "I’m impatient."

Massimo’s hands tightened, just slightly, a signal of approval.

“They’re already broken," he said. "Tomorrow is just the moment they realize it."

She turned then, slowly, facing him fully.

Massimo cupped her jaw in his calloused hand, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheek.

“For them, tomorrow will be the end,” he said, voice low. “For you, angel, it’s only the beginning.”

For a moment, the room was filled with only the sound of their breathing, the scent of smoke and leather and candlewax.

And then he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to hers, the briefest, fiercest touch.

Talana closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would no longer just survive. She would rule.