Chapter Sixteen :The Queen Rises

The villa smelled of gunpowder and roses.

A strange combination of death and beauty. But perhaps fitting, Serena thought, as she stood alone in the grand southern wing of the estate, the silence wrapping around her like a funeral veil.

It had been three days since the incident.

Three days since she had ended Victor Romano’s life with her own blood-stained hands.

Three days since she’d looked into the eyes of the man who claimed to be her father—who had held her mother in chains like a trophy—and watched the truth split her in half.

Since then, she hadn’t slept.

Not because she couldn’t.

Because she didn’t want to.

Sleep was for the safe.

She was no longer safe.

Victor Romano was gone.

But his war had only just begun.

---

The courtyard garden—once filled with sun and serenity—now stood drenched in shadow and silence. The stone paths were slick with morning dew, and the roses she had once admired were trimmed back with brutal efficiency, their thorns sharper than ever.

Serena stood where she'd once met the emissaries of the council for the first time. Then, she'd been unsure. Dressed in linen, caught between lives, wondering if her presence was tolerated only because of the ring on her finger and the blood in her veins.

Now?

She wore a fitted black suit, sharply cut like a blade. No lace. No silk. No jewelry.

Her long dark hair was drawn back into a braid tight enough to pull at her scalp, every strand locked in place with purpose.

Not a bride.

A Valentino.

The weight of that name settled over her shoulders like a second skin, it was no longer a legacy forced upon her, but a mantle she now chose to carry.

She didn’t need to turn to know who approached from behind.

The sound of his steps was different from the guards, from Mara, from anyone else in this fortress of marble and guns.

Matteo moved like a shadow, silent and deadly.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said softly.

The gravel in his voice was thicker than usual. She wondered if he’d been up too.

“I don’t need sleep,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard. The water no longer ran. “I need control.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. The gesture wasn’t one of dominance or comfort. It was solidarity.

“You already have more than you realize.”

Her jaw clenched. “I don’t want it by default.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I want to earn it,” she continued. “I want to make them afraid.”

Matteo’s voice dropped an octave. “Then you will.”

She turned to face him, their eyes meeting in the gray light of early morning. His gaze was unreadable, as it always was when he was calculating.

“Will they come for me?” she asked.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes.”

---

They didn’t wait for Rome this time.

Rome had been tradition. Naples was strategy.

It was her city now.

The council gathered in the old war chamber beneath the De Luca estate—a cavernous hall of power draped in marble, velvet, and the memories of old kings. The high stained-glass windows bled colored light across the table, casting blood-red halos on the men and women who had survived the last power shift.

Serena sat at the head.

Not Matteo.

Not a proxy.

Her.

And though the seat was centuries old, it had never held a woman before.

Some of the council bowed their heads as they entered. Some didn't. The insult hung thick in the air, daring her to retaliate.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

Cesare Mancini, silver-haired and ever the snake in a velvet suit, was the first to speak.

“The seat of Ardo remains unclaimed,” he said, folding his hands. “The Romano line is... extinguished.”

Serena didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“No,” she said calmly, her voice slicing clean through the tension. “The Romano line lives.”

A ripple of whispers danced across the table.

She reached into the folder beside her, pulling out a sheet with the kind of gravity one uses to drop a sword on a courtroom floor.

DNA confirmation.

Stamped and sealed by a neutral house, tested twice, notarized, irrefutable.

“I am the last living Romano. And the last living Valentino.”

She let that settle.

“That makes me more than a bride. It makes me sovereign.”

A snort of laughter came from Vincenzo Lupo, thick-necked and thick-skulled. “We do not answer to sovereigns.”

“You will,” Serena replied coldly. “Or you’ll fall like Lucien.”

Silence.

Cesare rubbed at his temples, sighing as if the weight of ancient politics wore on him.

“What is it you want?”

Her answer was immediate.

“Recognition. As heir to both lines.”

Vincenzo sneered. “You’d rule? You think that’s how this works? You think the blood makes you a ruler?”

“No,” she said, standing slowly, each movement deliberate.

“I don’t want your crown.”

She leaned forward.

“I want a seat you can’t remove. A vote you can’t block. Independence. The right to govern my line outside this council.”

The room pulsed with tension.

“You’re asking for war,” Cesare said, his voice quieter now.

“No,” Serena replied. “I’m offering peace. One last time.”

---

The silence that followed felt endless.

A single drop of water from a cracked windowpane struck the marble floor. The sound echoed like a bullet.

Then, Cesare nodded once.

“If even one more bloodline backs you... you’ll have it.”

She turned to Matteo.

He gave her a slight nod.

Then, from the back, Mara stepped forward, her presence like a whisper of death.

“The Bellandi of Milan,” she said. “They support her claim.”

And before anyone could react, Pietro Siletti—young, loyal, fierce—stood as well.

“The Siletti back her too.”

Stunned silence fell.

No one had expected the Siletti to break ranks. Pietro didn’t care.

Serena looked around the table.

“Then I am no longer your captive bride.”

A pause.

She smiled.

Slow. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I am your equal.”

---

The garden was quieter that evening.

The weight of her declaration lingered in the air like smoke from a burned letter.

Serena sat on a stone bench beneath the trellis, the scent of night-blooming flowers curling around her like perfume.

Matteo poured her a glass of deep red wine. He held it out without ceremony.

“You did it,” he said. “You made them listen.”

Serena took the glass but didn’t drink yet.

“They’ll still try to break me,” she murmured, staring at the stars.

He sat beside her.

“Let them try.”

She let the silence stretch between them before finally speaking again.

“I spent my life thinking I was a lost girl. That I’d slipped through the cracks in someone else's story. But I wasn’t lost.”

She turned to him.

“I was hidden.”

Matteo leaned in closer. His voice was low.

“And now?”

Serena finally took a sip of wine.

“I’m awake.”

---

But the world had no intention of letting her stay peaceful for long.

That night, just after two in the morning, Mara burst into the strategy room where Serena and Matteo were reviewing old council records.

Her face was pale. Alarmed.

She tossed a thick folder onto the desk. “Intercepted less than an hour ago. Encrypted, routed through one of Victor’s old ghost networks.”

Serena opened the folder.

The top sheet read:

“Phase Two Initiated.

The Black Sons move at dawn.

Target: De Luca stronghold. Eliminate the girl.

—A.”

Serena’s voice was razor-sharp. “Who is A?”

Matteo’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening into something Serena had only seen once before—right before he killed Lucien Bellandi.

“Aureliano,” he said. “Victor’s former war captain. Thought dead after the Romano purge.”

Mara’s voice was grim. “He’s alive. And he’s not hiding anymore.”

Serena didn’t hesitate.

“Then neither will I.”

---

The sky was streaked with crimson and gray, the colors of war.

Serena walked through the villa’s halls fully dressed in armor—sleek black leather that moved like second skin. Twin pistols were strapped to her thighs, her mother’s dagger riding at her hip.

No crown. No veil. No silk.

Only fire.

Only steel.

Matteo trailed a few paces behind, his expression unreadable, dressed in battle-black.

He stopped beside her just before the southern gates.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Serena turned.

Her voice was steady. Strong.

“No,” she said. “But I’m coming anyway.”

And when the Black Sons came crashing through the woods at sunrise, bullets flying and war cries echoing into the trees—

They didn’t find a frightened bride in white.

They didn’t find the daughter of a man they thought they’d broken.

They found a queen with blood in her hands and fury in her bones.

And she was ready to burn the world—

Before it ever took her crown again.