The weight of a crown

Serena:

Nico was the first to speak.

“You took his offer,” he said flatly, eyes pinned to the gun like it might go off on its own.

“No,” I replied. “I took the weight of it. There’s a difference.”

Matteo pushed off the counter, slow and deliberate. “You don’t carry something like that unless you’re planning to use it.”

“Maybe I am.”

Luca was already pacing. “We told you not to go alone.”

“No,” I said, stepping forward, “you warned me not to. I made my choice.”

He turned on me, jaw clenched, fury dancing in the tight line of his shoulders. “And what if he’d killed you?”

“Then at least I would’ve died on my feet. Not like some well-kept pet you let out only when you’re bored.”

The silence that followed cracked like thunder.

Nico stood now, slow and graceful as a knife being drawn.

“I don’t like what he put in your head,” he said quietly, like the calm before a firestorm.

“He didn’t put anything in it,” I shot back. “He just confirmed what I already knew.”

“Which is?”

“That you don’t trust me,” I said. “Not fully. Not yet. You keep circling me like I’m a weapon you’re afraid to unsheathe.”

Matteo moved closer, stopping just a breath away. “Because we know what happens when you do. You destroy things. Burn them down.”

My smile came slow, cold. “Maybe that’s what needs to happen.”

Luca swore under his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“No,” I said, voice steel-wrapped silk. “I am the game.”

I looked at all three of them, the gun still resting on the table like a fourth heartbeat in the room.

“You want to keep me? Then claim me. Not with sweet words and soft glances. With action. With blood, if it comes to it.”

A beat of stillness.

Then Matteo’s voice, low and dark. “What are you asking us to do?”

I met his gaze without flinching.

“Prove I’m not just a piece on someone else’s board.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then I crown myself.”

Nico let out a slow breath, tension leaking from his shoulders. “You’re going to start a war.”

“Good,” I whispered. “Because this time? I’ll be ready for it.”

They didn’t stop me when I turned for the bedroom.

They didn’t follow.

But I knew they would.

Eventually.

Because the real question wasn’t whether they’d keep me—

It was whether they’d survive what I became when no one did.

Luca

After she left the room

The door clicked shut behind her, and silence dropped like a blade.

That gun—her parting gift—still sat on the table, heavy and gleaming. Mocking us.

“She went to him alone,” I muttered, jaw tight. “She chose to walk into his den.”

“She came back,” Nico said, but his voice lacked conviction. “That counts for something.”

I ran a hand through my hair, pacing again. I couldn’t stay still. Couldn’t stop seeing her in that red-lit hallway, walking away from us with smoke in her smile and someone else’s war in her eyes.

“She could’ve told us,” I snapped. “Instead, she threw the gun at our feet like a gauntlet.”

“She threw the truth at our feet,” Matteo said quietly. He stood by the window, arms folded, unreadable as always. “We’ve kept her close, but never close enough.”

I turned on him. “You think this is our fault?”

“I think we taught her to be dangerous and then acted surprised when she used it.”

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

Because it was true.

We’d wrapped her in silk and shadows, taught her how to kill and lie and disappear—but never how to trust. Not fully. Not when every step in our world came with blood on the floor.

And now Dante Moretti had seen the fracture we left.

He’d offered her power. Control. Freedom.

And part of her wanted it.

But she came back.

She always came back.

That should’ve been enough.

So why did it feel like she was still slipping through my fingers?

“Do you think she meant it?” I asked, quieter now. “When she said we don’t trust her?”

Matteo finally turned from the window. “Do you?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know.

Not really.

She was fire wrapped in silk, and I loved her like a curse—but love in our world came with knives. I didn’t know how to give her softness. Only sharp edges and brutal promises.

And maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

I walked over to the table and picked up the gun.

It was still warm.

Her fingerprints still clung to the grip.

“I’m not letting him have her,” I said.

“She’s not a prize,” Nico replied, but his voice was rough around the edges.

“No,” I agreed. “She’s the war.”