Masuk(Alessandro’s POV) I sat on the edge of our bed, the secure phone in my hand feeling as heavy as a weapon. The path of fire and blood, the one the monster inside me craved, was so simple, so easy. But Isabella, my queen, my heart, had shown me a better way. A king’s way. She came and knelt before me, her small, warm hands covering mine on the phone. She didn't speak. She just looked at me, her beautiful honey-gold eyes full of a quiet, unwavering faith. In her gaze, I found the last bit of strength I needed to silence the beast and embrace the king. “Are you ready?” she whispered. “With you,” I said, my voice a low, steady sound, “I am ready for anything.” I dialed the number. It was a direct, private line, a number known to only a handful of men in the world. It was the number of Don Gallo. He answered on the second ring, his voice a gravelly, impatient rumble. “What is it?” I did not waste time with pleasantries. I spoke his language, the language of honor and betray
(Alessandro’s POV) I held her. In the silent, armored cocoon of the car, I held the trembling body of my queen, and a rage colder and more absolute than anything I had ever known settled into my soul. It was the rage of a king whose most sacred treasure had been threatened. It was the rage of a man whose entire world had just been held hostage. Lorenzo Falcone had not just insulted her. He had not just tried to intimidate her. He had looked into the beautiful, brave face of the woman I loved, and he had threatened her family. He had threatened her mother, an innocent woman a thousand miles away, to get to me. He had crossed a line that, in our world, was a declaration of total war. A war with no rules. A war with no mercy. I pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were wide with the aftershocks of the encounter, her skin was pale, but she was not broken. Her chin was held high, a small, defiant gesture that made my heart ache with a fierce, painful pride. He had
(Isabella’s POV) The car ride to the Falcone estate was a silent, tense journey. I was no longer Isabella Rossi, the art restorer who was engaged to the most powerful man in the city. I was Countess Alessa Petrova, a reclusive, wealthy, and slightly arrogant European noblewoman with a passion for rare art. I repeated the details of my new life in my mind, a quiet, steadying rhythm. I was born in Florence, educated in Switzerland, and my family’s money was old, vast, and discreet. Alessa was confident, poised, and unimpressed by the flashy displays of new money. She was everything these people were not. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, but my hands, resting in the lap of my elegant ivory dress, were perfectly still. I felt the cool, heavy weight of Elara’s necklace against my skin, a silent, powerful reminder of the man who was watching over me, and the love that was my true armor. The Falcone estate was a modern palace of glass and steel, perched on the edge of the
(Alessandro’s POV) I held her in the silent, secure cocoon of the armored car, my entire world held safely in my arms. I had listened to every word of her lunch with Sofia Falcone, every polite lie, every veiled threat. I had felt my own heart hammering in my chest with a terrifying, helpless fury. Listening to the woman I loved walk willingly into a den of lions was the purest form of torture I had ever known. But she had not just survived. She had won. Her performance had been a masterpiece of quiet, lethal grace. She had played the part of the Countess so perfectly, luring Sofia in with a shared passion for art, making her feel like an equal, a confidante. And then, with the casual mention of a lost Botticelli, she had set the hook. She had confirmed, with a single, brilliant move, that the Falcones were not just rivals of Bianchi, but deep, long-term partners in his darkest secrets. She had found the crack in their perfect, polished world. When she walked out of that resta
(Isabella’s POV) The restaurant where I was to meet Sofia Falcone was the kind of place that whispered its wealth. It was not loud or flashy, but a quiet, elegant space in the heart of the city, with soft lighting, fresh flowers on every table, and a hushed, reverent atmosphere. It was a place for secrets, a perfect hunting ground for a lioness like Sofia. I walked in alone, just as we had planned. I was Countess Alessa Petrova again, dressed in a simple but incredibly expensive cream-colored dress, my hair pulled back in an elegant twist. My only jewelry was the emerald necklace Alessandro had given me, a beautiful, powerful symbol of his love, and the small, delicate brooch on my dress that held a high-resolution camera. I felt like a soldier in a ballgown, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. “Countess Petrova,” the maître d' said, his voice a low, respectful purr. “Ms. Falcone is waiting for you in her private dining room.” I followed him through the restaurant, my s
(Isabella’s POV) The moment I ended the call with Sofia, the war room, which had been holding its breath, let out a collective, quiet sigh of relief. I looked at the faces of Alessandro’s men, at Lucian and the others, and I saw a new look in their eyes. The last traces of doubt were gone, replaced by a grudging, hard-won respect. I was not just their king’s weakness. I was his queen. Alessandro was the first to move. He came to me, his long strides closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. He didn't speak. He just took my face in his hands, his golden eyes searching mine, full of a fierce, raw pride and a love so profound it felt like a physical force. He leaned down and kissed me, a deep, possessive kiss that was a silent, public declaration in front of all his men. It was a kiss that said, You are mine. You are magnificent. “You did it, mia regina,” he whispered against my lips, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely showed. “You walked into her trap and made it yo







