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Chapter 51
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2025-06-09 00:00:16The rain met her first.
A curtain of cold, familiar silence that swept across the Marchesi vineyards as Seraphina stepped from the unmarked transport and walked through the eastern gate with her coat pulled tight around her. No fanfare. No guards escorting her back inside. The sentries had been instructed to say nothing.
Lucien had told them to let her return on her own terms.
And she did.
No lies. No excuses.
But not yet the truth, either.
The estate felt different.
Not colder, but heavier. Like the walls had learned something about her they weren’t ready to share.
She moved through the east wing without seeing anyone. Not Anton. Not Matteo. Not Lucien.
Exactly as she had hoped.
Back in her quarters, she removed her damp coat, locked the doors, and turned off the ceiling lights. Only the fireplace glowed faintly, casting flickering gold across the low velvet chair where she sat and unwrapped the envelope El
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The wind cut through Dubrovnik’s alleys like a blade sharpened by history.Lucien Marchesi walked beneath the stone arches of the ancient quarter with measured steps, his coat flaring behind him. The moonlight flickered off the cobbled streets, throwing long shadows that seemed to follow him with more than curiosity.Beside him, Anton kept one hand on his holstered pistol. Behind them, Seraphina scanned every corner, every rooftop. She’d been silent since the call—since confirming that the file was real, and that it was hidden below one of the city’s oldest cathedrals.“The priest on record?” Lucien asked, breaking the silence.“Gone,” Seraphina replied. “Transferred without notice a week ago. Interpol confirmed he was replaced with a ghost identity.”“Vale Sr.?”“Possibly. Or someone working beneath him. It’s the kind of misdirection he’d admire.”Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “No. This feels… messier. Personal.”They reached the cathedral through a concealed entrance in the crypt garden—a
Chains of Velvet, Heart of Fire Chapter 124
Three and a half years had passed since Allegra last whispered her son’s name aloud.Not because she had forgotten it—she would die with it on her tongue—but because names had power, and grief only made her stronger when left unspoken.She sat at her writing desk in the heart of Villa d’Oro, once a summer retreat, now a fortress rebuilt in grief and silence. Its halls were patrolled not by servants, but by men in tailored suits who carried guns instead of trays. Every corner of the estate had been rewired, rearmed, and reborn under her command.Allegra Ventresca was not mourning.She was planning.And now—finally—the game had opened again.She had read the whispers in the newspapers and the encrypted forums.A failed assassination attempt on Lucien Marchesi. Interpol raids. A resurfaced Gabe Vale Sr. moving through the underworld like a reawakened specter.Most would panic.Allegra smiled.Chaos had always been her favorite condition.Where others saw Vale Sr. as a threat, Allegra saw
Chains of Velvet, Heart of Fire Chapter 123
Dr. Alesandro Merez watched Lucien Marchesi like a sculptor inspecting the stone he refused to let crack.“You’ve healed faster than I’ve ever seen,” he muttered, adjusting Lucien’s IV line. “But don’t mistake momentum for invincibility.”Lucien sat upright in his hospital bed, the stiffness in his torso the only hint of the bullet wound that had nearly killed him a week ago. “I don’t have the luxury of time. He’s moving now. He’s not going to wait.”“You shouldn’t either,” Merez said, pulling out a small device and holding it up to Lucien’s bare chest. “Pulse: 76. Steady. Pain levels?”“Tolerable.”“Liar.”Lucien smirked. “You sound like Seraphina.”“God help you if she starts stitching your wounds. She’ll do it out of spite.”“I’d let her.” Lucien’s voice softened for a moment, the storm in his eyes dimming.Then it returned, sharp and silver—those rare, storm-colored irises reflecting everything he refused to say aloud.He returned to Palazzo Marchesi two days later under midnight
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It started with a breath—shallow, uneven, but new.Seraphina’s head snapped up from where she sat curled beside Lucien’s bed. For a moment she wasn’t sure. But then, again—his chest rose a little more deeply.And then his fingers twitched.“Lucien…” she whispered, reaching for his hand.His eyelids fluttered.The machines surrounding him beeped steadily, not frantically as they had for days. The monitors registered the change first—his vitals spiked just enough to draw the attention of the attending nurse, who rushed inside and radioed for Dr. Merez.But Seraphina didn’t move from his side. She leaned forward, her fingers threaded through his.Lucien’s brow furrowed. His lips parted, then closed again.“Lucien, it’s me. You’re safe,” she said, voice trembling. “You’re in the hospital. You made it. We got you out.”He let out a low groan, and his eyes finally opened.Dimly. Slowly. But they opened.Storm-colored irises—rare and arresting—gazed back at her, almost silver when the light
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The persistent beep of Lucien’s heart monitor gave Seraphina strength. A rhythm of resistance. He still hadn’t woken up, but his vitals were stronger, his breaths more even.She sat beside him, eyes hollowed with sleepless nights. The hospital room was quiet, but her mind raced with unfinished wars.The door creaked open. Vincenzo stepped in with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder and a look that meant business.“I hope you didn’t think you’d get a break,” he said.She stood. “Tell me.”He set the laptop down on the tray table and powered it on. “Matteo’s buried in code and digital footprints, but he’s hit a wall. So, he thought of someone else.”Her eyes narrowed. “Me?”“You learned from the best,” Vincenzo said gently. “And we’re not talking about Detective Elian.”Seraphina hesitated, then slowly nodded. “My mother.”Vincenzo slid a drive from his coat pocket. “Detective Elian gave me this. Your mom’s files—everything she compiled before she died. Surveillance logs, offshore acco
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Cyra returned to the private compound beneath a sky as black as the thoughts racing through her mind.Her shoulder throbbed beneath her coat. The forged nurse’s uniform she’d used to sneak into the hospital was stained with dried blood—her own. She didn’t bother fixing her hair before the front gates opened, nor did she wait to be announced. She stepped straight into the lion’s den.Inside the sprawling limestone estate, Vale Sr. waited, glass in hand, the fireplace roaring behind him. His expression was unreadable—calm, elegant, and deeply unsettling. The flickering flames made shadows dance across the heavy rug beneath his feet.“You’re late,” he said.Cyra didn’t flinch. “Security was tighter than expected. The Marchesi bastard’s surrounded by a rotating perimeter of mafia soldiers, Interpol agents, and a woman who shoots like she was raised by mercenaries.”Vale Sr. turned slowly. “You failed.”Cyra bowed her head. “I tried. I almost had it. The syringe was at the IV line. They in
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