Semua Bab Chains of Velvet, Heart of Fire: Bab 21 - Bab 30

Barcelona shimmered beneath a wet sky, the kind that made the rooftops gleam like black glass and the narrow alleys smell of old rain and older sins.Lucien had chosen the hotel carefully — just outside the Gothic Quarter, high enough to see the movement on Isolde’s street but far enough to remain a shadow. He sat at the desk, dressed in all black, calibrating the frequency on his shortwave receiver.Across the room, Seraphina was slipping a knife into her boot.“How do you want this to go?” she asked, her voice flat.Lucien didn’t answer immediately.Because he didn’t know.Did she want blood? Closure? Proof?Did he?“She dies,” Seraphina added coldly. “Eventually. But not before I get answers.”Lucien finally looked up.“Are you sure you can handle this?”“You mean her?”“No,” he said. “I

Palermo Node — 72 Hours Later.Adriana Moretti leaned against a sleek black car beneath a lemon tree grove just outside the Marchesi estate. The citrus scent mingled with gasoline and tension. She exhaled smoke slowly, like she was rationing her resolve.She looked different from the woman Lucien once knew. Gone was the polished elegance of Florence soirées and Milan gallery openings. In its place—something feral. Her cheekbones sharper, lips always on the edge of a smirk. She had become what she had once despised.But the hunger remained.Dell’s contact had found her in a Zurich hotel two nights ago with a briefcase and a proposition.“You want him back. We want him broken. Everyone wins.”The offer had been clear: get close to Lucien. Remind him who you were together. Then, when he trusts you—turn the knife.Adriana had laughed then. Not because it was funny, but because she alread

The Sicilian evening descended with sultry grace, casting long shadows over the restored grandeur of Palazzo Marchesi. Moonlight shimmered on the limestone facade, while flickering lanterns lined the walkways, their golden glow echoing off the marble columns like firelight in a cathedral.Inside, classical strings swelled through the grand ballroom—Mozart, soft but biting. The estate, no longer just a home but a fortress of stone and silence, had become the stage for a pivotal moment: a gathering of power, politics, and unspoken threats.Tonight, loyalty would not just be measured—it would be tested.Lucien stood at the top of the grand staircase, a shadow amid opulence. His tailored black suit, crisp collar, and stillness commanded more than attention. It commanded obedience. The room below stirred—men in silk, women in diamonds, the ghosts of Giorgio Marchesi’s legacy come to life.Beside Lucien, Seraphina was a vision drawn from dusk. Her gown of midnight blue shimmered with subtle

The Marchesi estate had never known quiet like this. Not in decades.Not the silence of defeat, or the hush that followed violence.This was a rare quiet. The kind that came with control.With order.Lucien stood on the west terrace in the last light of day, watching the vineyard shadows stretch like sleeping beasts across the hills. The sea was just visible between cypress branches, waves calm and unapologetic.It had been three days since Palermo.Three days since the world bowed to his name.And for the first time in months, there were no meetings. No knives waiting in the dark. No men needing to be reminded where their bloodlines ended and his began.The empire was running smoothly—thanks to Vincenzo’s calculated calm and Anton’s efficiency.The palace breathed again.And so did he.But still, something in him itched. Not a warning. Not a threat.Something quieter.Someth

The road to Cefalù curled like an old scar across the hills.The sky was still grey from the morning’s mist, though the vineyards below the cliffs shimmered in slow golden light. Cypress trees bordered the narrow route, tall and slender, like sentinels carved from grief.Lucien rode in silence.The black Maserati swept smoothly through the curves, Matteo at the wheel, eyes behind dark glasses, jaw tight as usual. In the back seat, Lucien sat with Seraphina beside him, a fine-cut charcoal suit hanging on him like second skin. Her hand rested loosely on her thigh. She didn’t reach for his.But she was close enough to feel the weight in his chest.They hadn’t spoken since leaving the estate.There was no need.This wasn’t a conversation.It was a ritual.A pilgrimage.Today marked the anniversary of Valeria Marchesi’s death—and her birthday. The cruel symmetry of it was