Chapter Fourteen: The shadows

Rome.

A city older than kingdoms, carved into the bones of empires and cemented with the blood of the ambitious.

It was fitting, Serena thought, that this was where the underground council had gathered. Not in Naples, where power was paraded in designer suits and whispered bribes. Not in Geneva, where the snow was still tinged red from the last attempted coup, the blood of the innocent and guilty lay on its grounds.

No, Rome made sense.

Power, after all, was never truly given.

It was taken.

The summit took place in a shuttered monastery on the outskirts of the City. A structure older than the families it now hosted, with thick stone walls that once housed monks and martyrs. The chapel had long been deconsecrated, but it still held a ghostly aura, almost like the echoes of old prayers were still clinging to its arches, fighting to be remembered.

Inside the main chamber, time had been arrested. The long wooden table at the center was carved from oak darkened by centuries, surrounded by ten high-backed chairs, each representing a ruling family. Nine were already filled by men and women whose names inspired fear across continents.

And the tenth—Valentino’s—belonged to Serena.

But she didn’t sit.

She stood behind Matteo, her silence louder than any declaration. She wore a dress the color of nightfall, neither wholly black nor gray, but something in between.Her hands were loose at her sides, chin high, gaze calm. No jewelry, no crest, no title on display. And yet she drew every eye.

Her presence wasn’t expected.

Which was exactly why it rattled them.

From her vantage, she saw the flicker of surprise in Lucien’s expression the moment his eyes found her. It was small—barely a twitch of his brow, a narrowing of the gaze—but it was enough.

She wasn’t behind Matteo.

She was beside him.

And in this room, that meant war.

---

The silence in the chamber wasn’t empty.

It was charged. Thick like smoke, humming like electricity.

Serena could hear the slow breath of the man to her left, a quiet sniff from the woman two seats over, the soft click of Cesare Mancini’s ring as he adjusted it on his gnarled hand. No one spoke immediately. Not even Matteo.

Until Cesare cleared his throat, the sound brittle and deliberate.

“We were told you were returning without incident, Matteo.”

His voice bore the weight of decades, a crumbling stone façade trying to hold back the tides of change.

Matteo inclined his head once, coolly. “Plans changed.”

Lucien Ardo, seated two chairs to the right, leaned forward. His movements were fluid and precise—like a blade being drawn.

“You defied protocol. Again.”

Matteo didn’t flinch. “I protected my wife,” he said, voice sharp and elegant. “Which is more than I can say for this council.”

Serena turned her gaze to Lucien, meeting his eyes with calculated calm.

And she smiled.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened around his glass, though he tried to hide it.

But his voice was still silk. “Your actions nearly cost us the only living Valentino. That alone merits a discussion.”

That was her cue.

Serena took one measured step forward. The shift in weight drew the full attention of the room like a switchblade unsheathed in church.

“No,” she said softly, her voice a smooth edge. “What merits a discussion is the fact that someone in this room authorized an ambush.”

The words dropped like bullets.

Gasps rippled across the chamber.

Whispers started among the seated men.

Cesare’s eyes darkened. A younger man might have slammed the table, demanded silence. Cesare simply waited, letting the chaos rise like a storm—and then settle .

Lucien scoffed, dismissive. “An accusation like that could start a war.”

“Good,” Serena replied, her eyes never leaving his. “Because someone’s already started it.”

Without breaking stride, Matteo reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out a black file. He placed it on the table, slow and purposeful. Each movement echoed with the weight of intent.

Encrypted transcripts.

Tracking logs.

Audio recordings.

Proof.

“We traced the breach to Enzo’s device,” Matteo said. “And we traced Enzo’s orders back to an encrypted channel routed through Palermo. A route only three people in this room have access to.”

A pause.

A long one.

Lucien’s expression didn’t shift—but his hand curled just slightly tighter around the base of his glass. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Cesare leaned forward, opening the folder. His weathered fingers turned the pages with care, but Serena saw the tremble he was trying to hide. When he reached the second page, he stilled.

“I know this cipher,” he muttered.

Lucien finally leaned back, the picture of nonchalance.

Feigning calm.

“Even if that’s true,” he said with practiced ease, “it’s circumstantial. It proves nothing.”

Serena stepped fully beside Matteo now.

“You’re right. It proves nothing.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched, ready to twist her words into triumph.

Until she dropped the phone onto the table.

It landed with a dull clatter.

A burner.

Scorched. Corroded. But intact.

Matteo’s voice was low, dangerous. “We found this in Enzo’s room. Voice logs still intact.”

And then Mara stepped forward from the edge of the chamber, silent until now. She held a device, small and silver, no bigger than a cigarette case. With a tap, she pressed play.

The room fell deathly still.

A distorted voice emerged. Muffled, distorted by static but unmistakable.

Low. Aristocratic. Italian laced with venom and control.

“Deliver the girl. Ensure she’s disarmed. The De Luca line ends with Matteo. If she resists—break her.”

Lucien froze in shock.

And for the first time since the meeting began, he said nothing.

---

Cesare stood slowly, Like a lion ready to pounce on his prey.

“Lucien Ardo,” he said, voice echoing in the stone chamber. “You stand accused of orchestrating an unauthorized attack against Valentino blood. Of endangering a council-bound heir. Of treason.”

Lucien pushed to his feet, rage spilling into every inch of his frame.

“If you cast me out,” he snarled, “you cast out history. My family built this council—”

Matteo stepped forward, gaze ice-cold.

“No,” he interrupted. “We’re burying it.”

Lucien’s hand darted to his belt.

A flash of silver.

But Mara was faster.

Her gun fired once.

The bullet hit Lucien square in the thigh.

He collapsed, howling in pain, hand clutching the wound as blood seeped through his expensive slacks.

“You think this ends with me?” he screamed. “You think the bloodlines will survive this?”

Serena moved forward, her heels echoing across ancient stone floors.

She crouched beside him, her voice came out in a whisper.

“Not survive,” she said. “Rise.”

Then she stood. Smoothed her dress out.

And let the guards drag Lucien from the chamber.

---

That night, the council reconvened.

The seat once held by Ardo sat empty, shadowed by the weight of its disgrace.

Cesare’s face was pale under the flickering candlelight. Older than usual. Every breath he took seemed etched in regret and exhaustion.

“The seat of Ardo must be replaced,” he said.

Matteo’s voice was calm. “Let it burn empty.”

Serena followed, her words sharp. “Let it remind you what happens when the past clings to power.”

Cesare closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and nodded.

“So be it.”

He looked at Serena for a long moment, something unreadable behind his gaze.

“Valentino has been quiet for too long,” he said.

Serena met his eyes without blinking. “Not anymore.”

---

Back at the villa, the tension had not left Matteo’s body.

He stripped off his coat, then rolled up his sleeves, revealing the bruises on his forearms—reminders of their last narrow escape.

At the bar, he poured two glasses of red wine. The bottle was aged—an old vintage he usually saved for anniversaries or death announcements. Tonight felt like both.

Serena took the glass he handed her and leaned against the edge of the windowsill. The Rome skyline flickered in the distance, golden domes and dark roofs wrapped in evening shadows.

“Did you know Cesare would back us?” she asked.

“No,” Matteo said. “But I knew he hated Lucien more than he feared change.”

She nodded.

Silence stretched between them.

Then she said, “He’ll turn on us one day.”

“Yes,” Matteo agreed, sipping his wine. “But not tonight.”

They clinked glasses.

And for the first time in weeks, the air between them loosened.

Not peace.

But a breath of it.

Until the knock came.

Just before midnight.

A sharp rap on the villa door.

Luca, one of their guards, entered silently. He held an envelope in gloved hands. No seal. No crest. Just ivory paper. He handed it to Serena, then stepped back.

She unfolded it.

And her breath caught.

A photo slid out.

Isadora Vale

Bound.

Bloodied.

Eyes wide with terror.

And beneath it, scrawled in messy, unhurried ink:

You thought you had uncovered everything.

But you still don’t know who you really are.

Come alone, or she dies.

—V