Chapter 6 The First Move

There was a strange stillness in the Moretti estate the morning after she opened the west wing.

The guards avoided her gaze.

Bianca offered her breakfast but didn’t speak.

Even Dante hadn’t come to find her.

It was as if the house knew.

Amara Voss was no longer just a pawn.

She sat in the sunroom, sipping coffee she didn’t taste, the wind rustling through the ivy-covered windows. Her hands were calm, but inside, her mind was war.

Her father had sold her.

Her mother had lied.

And Dante—

He had known everything.

But he hadn’t destroyed the files.

He’d left the door locked—but not impossible to enter.

Did he want me to find it?

Did he want me to hate him even more? Or… did he want me to finally see the game board clearly?

Because now, she did.

And if this was a game…

She was ready to play.

---

It started with Bianca.

Later that morning, Amara found her in the greenhouse, trimming orchids with silent precision.

“I need a favor,” Amara said.

Bianca didn’t pause. “I don’t do favors.”

“You do if you want to survive.”

That made Bianca turn.

She stared at Amara, long and calculating.

“I’m listening.”

“I want access to the guest list from the masquerade.”

Bianca blinked. “Why?”

“Because someone in that ballroom gave Alessandro the photo of Sofia.”

Bianca tilted her head. “You think it wasn’t just him manipulating you?”

“It might have been. But he’s not smart enough to do it alone. Someone fed him that image. Someone with access to Dante’s archive.”

Bianca narrowed her eyes. “You want me to spy on Dante’s enemies?”

“I want you to help me find his traitors.”

A long pause followed.

Finally, Bianca nodded.

“You’ll have it by tonight.”

Amara turned to go, but Bianca stopped her.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you.”

---

That afternoon, she wandered the halls again.

But this time with purpose.

She wasn’t avoiding Dante.

She was looking for him.

She found him in the underground range—shooting with terrifying accuracy.

Gunshots echoed off stone walls as he reloaded, focused, calm.

Amara stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“I read everything,” she said.

He didn’t look at her.

“I know.”

“You had a file on me before I was born.”

Bang.

“You were always part of the plan.”

Bang.

“I’m not yours.”

He finally turned, gun still in hand.

“No. Not yet.”

She walked toward him slowly.

“Then let’s make something clear, Dante. If you want me by your side, it won’t be as your caged obsession. I want power. Real power. I want the truth. I want choices.”

He studied her.

“You want to rule.”

“I want to survive. And I want to win.”

A smile curved on his lips—dark, amused, approving.

“Then I’ll teach you.”

Amara blinked.

“What?”

“I’ll teach you how to lie. How to kill. How to own your enemies before they own you.”

“I don’t want to become you.”

“No,” he said. “You’ll become worse.”

She didn’t flinch.

He stepped closer.

“If you’re going to be my queen,” he said softly, “then you need to learn how to wear the crown and hide the knife.”

She looked into his eyes.

“I already have a knife.”

---

That evening, Bianca delivered the guest list.

Amara took it to her room, studying each name, each family connection.

It wasn’t long before she found a pattern.

Two names stood out—Niccolò Ferraro and Lucia Mancini.

Both former allies of the Morettis.

Both recently aligned with the Ardenti, the family Alessandro had tried to marry into.

Amara circled their names.

Then underlined them.

It’s them. One of them gave Alessandro the photo.

It wasn’t much—but it was a start.

She needed more.

---

The next morning, Dante summoned her again.

But this time, not to the dining hall.

To the stables.

She hadn’t known they even had stables.

The air was sharp with the scent of hay and leather. Horses snorted in their stalls, sleek and silent.

He waited near a black stallion, dressed in dark riding gear.

She hesitated.

“You expect me to ride?”

“I expect you to learn,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because every queen needs to learn how to lead from the front—and how to run when it all goes to hell.”

She mounted awkwardly, and they rode together into the surrounding hills.

No guards. No cameras.

Just them, and the thunder of hooves.

For the first time, Amara felt…free.

Wind in her hair. Sun on her face.

But even that freedom felt borrowed.

A trick.

When they paused near a cliff that overlooked the ocean, Dante dismounted first. He stood near the edge, watching the waves crash against jagged stone.

Amara joined him, her legs shaking slightly from the ride.

“You used to come here with her, didn’t you?” she asked.

He said nothing for a long time.

Then nodded.

“She loved the sea.”

“She loved you.”

“She tried to,” he said. “But I think I reminded her too much of what she wanted to forget.”

“And what was that?”

“Herself.”

Amara didn’t speak.

The wind howled between them.

“You have her mouth,” he said. “Her fire. But your soul… that’s something else. That’s yours.”

She turned to him.

“I’m not her. I’m not my father. I’m not yours.”

“You will be.”

He stepped close again.

Close enough to touch.

But this time, she reached for him.

She kissed him.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

It was a weapon. A warning.

A test.

And he kissed her back like a man who’d waited years for it.

When they pulled apart, breathless, she whispered—

“I’ll burn you.”

He smiled.

“Good. Then we’ll match.”

---

That night, she returned to her room, pulse still racing.

What was she doing?

Using him?

Or being used?

There was no line anymore.

Only fire.

Only danger.

But one thing was certain—

She wasn’t just surviving this game.

She was learning how to win.