CHAPTER TWO - THE FALL OF A QUEEN

THE FALL OF A QUEEN

The winter wind bit through the streets of Palermo, rattling shutters and carrying the scent of the sea and smoke. Lucia Romano sat alone in her palazzo, the walls heavy with silence. Outside, the city throbbed with life, but inside, everything was suffocating. She had given birth weeks ago, yet the room felt colder than any night she had endured in the back alleys of the city.

The child lay in the cradle, swaddled in white, a tiny, fragile thing that made her stomach twist in anger and fear. His dark hair was like his father’s, his small fingers curling and uncurling, innocent and yet full of a fate she could not protect him from.

She hated him already.

Not for what he was, but for who he reminded her of. Guerrero Valenti. The man who had vanished without a word, leaving behind a child that carried his name, his blood, and the dangerous potential to claim everything she had built.

Lucia stood, pacing the room. The shadows of the chandeliers danced across the walls like predators circling prey. Her hands trembled as she poured herself a glass of wine, the liquid catching the light in ruby streaks. She did not drink for pleasure. She drank for courage.

The baby stirred, and she turned her gaze to him. His eyes were open, dark and curious, and for a moment she almost faltered. But the thought of Guerrero’s absence, the whispers of rivals, the knowledge that the underworld would not forgive weakness hardened her resolve.

“You will not ruin me,” she whispered to the infant. “I am the Queen of this city, and no bastard will steal my crown.”

Weeks turned into months. Palermo whispered about her differently now. Enemies no longer feared her. Allies began to doubt. The child was the visible crack in her armor. Mothers at the market sneered. Servants whispered behind her back. Rumors spread like wildfire: the feared Lucia Romano, once untouchable, now softening under the weight of an absent man’s child.

She became cruel.

Not out of malice alone, but out of necessity. She needed control. She needed respect. She needed to make sure no one saw the vulnerability the child exposed.

She punished him without reason sometimes, slapping his small hands when he cried too loudly, yelling when he would not eat. Her nurse protested, but Lucia silenced her with a look. “He is mine, and I will raise him how I choose. If Palermo dares to call him a bastard, he will learn to fight before he can walk.”

Even Enzo Romano, who had stood by her through every gang war, every blood debt, watched with growing unease. “Lucia, you are too hard on him,” he warned.

She turned sharply. “Do you want them to laugh at me? Do you want them to whisper that the Queen has been replaced by a child’s weakness?”

Enzo shook his head. He knew better than to push further.

Lucia’s world contracted to shadows and the cold steel of power. She still ruled the Vikings’ network with ruthless precision, but cracks showed where warmth should have been. Her lieutenants began to murmur, noting that their fearless leader had become sharper, colder, unapproachable. Palermo’s underworld respected fear, but they despised cruelty that threatened the innocent—even a child.

Yet none dared speak aloud.

The infant grew, and so did the whispers.

“The son of Valenti,” they muttered in the back alleys. “The bastard who carries the blood of a wolf who abandoned him.”

Lucia clenched her fists when she heard it. She made sure no one saw. She would not let the city diminish him in her eyes, even if she could not love him as she should.

One night, a group of rival gangsters tried to push their way into her territory, thinking she was distracted, thinking she had softened. They brought knives, threats, and arrogance.

Lucia met them at the gates. Her presence was as sharp as any blade she carried. The men laughed at first, seeing a lone woman approach, but the laughter died the moment she stepped into the street.

Gunfire cracked through the night, echoing off the stone buildings. Lucia moved with precision, her small frame belying the storm within. She struck, dodged, and countered with the violence Palermo had once known her for. Blood ran along the cobblestones, and by the time she returned to her home, the streets were silent.

The child slept peacefully, unaware that his mother had just spilled blood to protect what she could. And yet, despite the victory, Lucia felt hollow.

She carried him to the window and stared down at Palermo, the city alive with whispers, the red neon glow of Luce Rossa faintly visible in the distance. He was a bastard in the eyes of the world. The son of a man who had abandoned him, a man who may never return.

YBut she would not allow anyone to underestimate him.

“Someday,” she murmured, holding the child close. “They will learn to bow.”

Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned like embers.

And far beyond the city, in shadows thick with smoke and money, Guerrero Valenti’s name was still alive. Rumors of his survival, of battles fought in foreign lands, of enemies crushed and debts collected, began to drift back to Palermo like a distant storm warning.

Lucia did not know it yet, but the calm she enforced, the cruelty she wielded, and the fragile control she maintained over her son would not be enough. Guerrero’s return would be nothing short of fire.

But the question is;

….”would he ever come back”?

….”was he dead”?.

”Blood is thicker than water” or so they say.

A true VIKINGS should be able to perceive his own blood even from it's silhouettes…

This trait has been passed down From the Ancestral Wolves…

Embedded in the leader of the VIKINGS and it's descendants

Even the Breeze cackled at those who called the legitimate son of the Vikings a “BASTARD “

The storm had only begun.