Todos los capítulos de The Don's Secret Heir: Capítulo 161 - Capítulo 170

POV: ValentinaThe quiet of the master study felt heavy and absolute after the storm in the gallery. Downstairs, Luca's men were sweeping the grounds, while the cool night rain beat a steady rhythm against the tall arched windows.Marco sat on the edge of the dark mahogany desk, his knuckles still raw, his dark eyes fixed on the raw emerald ring resting on the velvet pad between us.He reached out, his broad, calloused thumb catching the tiny, almost invisible seam along the inner gold band. He twisted it firmly. With a faint, metallic click, the top of the emerald casing hinged back."Vale," Marco whispered, his voice deep and raspy. "There's something inside."I stepped closer, my breath catching in my throat. Tucked inside the hollow center of the ring was a tightly rolled coil of high-density microfilm, preserved inside a thin sheet of oiled parchment.Luca brought the portable optical reader from the vault, feeding the tiny film through the lens. The blue light flared onto the wh

POV: Valentina"The vote is called," Uncle Silvio’s gravelly voice echoed across the vaulted stone chamber of the Syndicate Council house, cutting through the dense cloud of cigar smoke and the restless hum of forty regional captains. His heavy mahogany cane struck the marble floor twice, a resounding clack that demanded absolute silence. "Who stands for the Donna?"I stood at the center of the dais, my shoulders back, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with my mother’s raw emerald ring gleaming on my finger. Beside me, Marco stood tall, his hands clasped behind his broad back, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept over the rows of seated men.One by one, the captains stood up. Captain Moretti was the first, bowing his head sharply. "For Donna Valentina Ricci."Then came Captain Rossini, followed by the coastal commanders, the Florentine lieutenants, and even the hesitant northern proxies who had spent months sitting on the fence. The vote was no longer a negotiation; it was a

POV: ValentinaThe heavy wrought-iron gates of the Florence estate creaked open beneath a grey, rain-washed sky. I stood on the top step of the portico, my dark wool coat buttoned tightly against the biting autumn wind, my arms crossed over my chest.Flanked by two armed guards, a woman stepped out of a slick black Maserati. She wore a tailored crimson coat that flared at the waist, her dark hair styled in immaculate Neapolitan waves, her sharp eyes catching the pale morning light as she glided up the marble steps with effortless, aristocratic grace.Lucrezia Greco—Don Gennaro’s grand-niece and the woman sent to claim my husband.She stopped three steps below me, her lips curved into a smooth, devastatingly polished smile. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box, snapping it open to reveal a vintage, hand-carved silver rattle set with a single pearl."Congratulations, Donna," Lucrezia said, her voice smooth as dark silk, carrying the distinct, melodic

POV: Luca"Tell me you didn’t, Charles."My voice sounded hollow, scraping up from my chest like dry gravel as I stood in the doorway of the stone tack house near the eastern stables. The air inside smelled of oiled saddle leather, damp wool, and cedar shavings.Charles froze mid-stride near his equipment locker, a heavy leather duffel slung over his shoulder. He turned slowly, his face a face so like my own, minus the razor-thin scar across my jaw—drained of all color under the dim yellow bulb hanging from the rafters."Luca..." Charles swallowed hard, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. "What are you talking about? Why are you looking at me like that?"I didn't answer with words. I stepped into the room, kicking the heavy timber door shut behind me with a solid, echoing thud. I pulled the magnetic black sleeve from my coat pocket and threw it onto the wooden workbench between us.The burner phone skittered across the grain, its dark screen illuminated with the Neapolitan rou

POV: Marco"Tell your queen Naples doesn’t take orders from skirts."Cristian Greco stood at the edge of Pier 14, his dark cashmere coat draped over his broad shoulders, his heavy gold watch catching the orange glare of the sodium floodlights. Rain slicked the weathered timber beneath our boots, blending with the pungent stench of fuel oil and rotting sea brine. Behind him, three massive container freighters swayed against their mooring lines, their steel hulls bearing fresh coats of black paint.Renzo shifted his grip on his coat, his hand resting flush against his concealed sidearm. "Watch your mouth, Greco," Renzo rumbled, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal threat. "You're speaking about Donna Valentina Ricci."Cristian let out a dry, barking laugh that echoed off the stacked shipping containers. "I’m speaking about a girl sitting on Eduardo’s old throne in Florence while her cargo rots on our docks."I took a slow, deliberate step forward into the halo of the floodlights,