Queen of smoke and knives

News travels faster than blood dries.

In less than twenty-four hours, the world outside the estate began whispering condolences that didn’t match the silence inside the house. Politicians sent white lilies. Business partners offered carefully worded sympathies, wrapped in veiled questions.

Even the Vatican sent a blessing. But no one believed a man like Don Esteban Torres died quietly. And Lucien wasn’t mourning. Not the way people expected. He didn’t hold a memorial. He didn’t wear black. He didn’t even make a public statement.

Instead, he worked. Hours on end. Eyes sunken, voice clipped, phone glued to his hand, dealing with calls from other syndicates, from legal fronts, from deep-state clients too powerful to threaten and too dirty to trust.

The seat was his now, but the crown burned hot. The empire didn’t grieve—it fractured. Factions began whispering in dark corners. People who had bowed for decades began straightening their spines.

Territories once held in check by Esteban’s sheer force of reputation were now testing the edges.

Lucien handled it with brute precision—cutting off supply lines, reassigning loyalties, making examples of men who once dined at his family’s table.

The kingdom was his. But the throne was sharp. Valentina watched it all unravel around her without moving a single piece. She hadn’t made any play. Not yet. But the walls were shifting anyway.

The storm was already forming without her help, and that truth unsettled her in a way she couldn’t fully name.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She’d come to take down a man, to burn a name, to tear apart the devil at the center of it all. But Don Esteban was gone. She hadn’t killed him. She hadn’t even touched him.

Lucien had done that—unwittingly, instinctively, violently. And now, here they were. Lucien—bloody-knuckled king. Valentina—his queen by default, wrapped in silk and shadows, bearing a child she didn’t plan and holding a secret that had no safe exit.

She sat at the head of the courtyard this time, not as a guest, not as a lover, but as a fixture. The guards didn’t just acknowledge her now—they obeyed her. She didn’t speak often, but when she did, people leaned in.

They called her 'señora' behind her back. Some called her 'bruja'. Witch. The women of the cartel no longer whispered loud enough for her to hear, but she saw the way they watched her. With tight smiles and tighter eyes.

Lucien’s wives—or what was left of them—offered her respect like knives handed hilt-first. She had power now, but power didn’t come clean. It came with threats.

There were notes under her door. One made of ashes shaped into the word 'destierro'—banishment. Another came in the form of a pearl earring soaked in pig’s blood. Isa joked that it was poetic. Valentina didn’t laugh.

Her world had changed because she had risen. But she hadn’t won.

---

She was standing on the east balcony when the call came through. Isa’s voice was breathless, hard. “Valentina. Sit down.”

“I’m already standing,” she said.

“Just say it.”

“I found him.” Valentina froze.

“Who?”

“Miguel. Your father.” She hadn’t spoken his name aloud in weeks. It felt foreign on her tongue.

“Where?” Isa was quiet for two beats.

“A black site. CIA-owned. Codename Purgatory.” Valentina closed her eyes.

“He’s alive?” “Yes. Barely. They’re holding him as a fail-safe. Insurance policy. His brain’s still sharp, but they’re using him. He knows too much. He’s been moved twice in the last six months. And they’re not planning to let him out alive.”

Valentina gripped the edge of the railing.

“I’m getting him out,” she said.

Isa’s voice dropped. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

Isa exhaled.

“Do you think Lucien—”

“No,” she said quickly.

“He can’t know. Not until I’m sure. Not until I have my father in my hands.”

There was silence. Then Isa’s voice again, lower this time.

“You’re going to need help on the ground.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“How?” Valentina looked down into the garden, where the guards stood like statues and the walls whispered in too many languages.

“I’ll find someone I can trust.” 

---

But she didn’t have to look far. That night, while passing through the inner wing, she saw Inés Arámbula standing in the hallway. Perfect dress. Painted lips. A look in her eyes like a snake waiting to strike.

The first wife. Or at least, the most dangerous one Lucien hadn’t removed.

“You’re very quiet these days,” Inés said.

“I prefer to observe.”

“Is that what queens do now?”

Valentina smiled, soft and sharp. “That depends on the queen.”

Inés moved closer. Her heels didn’t make a sound.

“Be careful where you put your trust,” she said, voice low. “

Is that advice?” “No,” Inés whispered.

“It’s a warning.”

The plan was delicate. Valentina moved silently, speaking only to Isa, mapping out transport, security patterns, response times. It would take weeks to prepare. A team she didn’t have yet. A route she hadn’t cleared. But she didn’t care.

Her father was alive, and that was enough. It came in the form of a midnight security lockdown. Alarms didn’t blare—but guards moved.

Silent orders passed down. Codes scrambled. All internal activity froze. Valentina was locked out of the inner network. Even her access card was flagged. She called Isa.

“They know,” Isa said. Valentina’s throat closed.

“What do you mean?”

“The black site extraction plan. It was leaked.” Valentina felt the ground tilt.

“That’s not possible. No one else knew.”

There was a pause.

Then Isa’s voice, cold and clipped.

“It was Inés.” Valentina didn’t speak.

“She accessed the network through a backup route. She mirrored my data feed. She sold the intel, Valentina. I don’t know who to. But someone’s moved your father.”

Valentina’s stomach turned; the betrayal settled like stone in her gut. She’d always thought she’d been careful. She thought the real war was behind her. But the game wasn’t over.

It had just evolved.