All Chapters of The Don's Secret Heir: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Valentina POVCountess Moretti signed her name with a flourish on my digital notepad, her eyes gleaming with genuine excitement as she looked back up at me."Three private silk gowns for the autumn gala in Milan, my dear," she said, tapping my wrist warmly. "If the Venetian weave is half as exquisite as Uncle Tino claims, Atelier Greco will be the only name anyone speaks in Florence.""I promise you, Countess, it will exceed every expectation," I replied, forcing a polite, polished smile while my pulse hammered against my ribs.Behind her, near the grand marble fireplace, Marco stood like a statue, his dark eyes sweeping the perimeter of the ballroom. Four major retail accounts locked down in less than an hour. We were doing it. We were actively carving out Carmela’s foundation right under her nose, taking back the exact ground she had stolen from us.I stepped back to Marco’s side, letting out a soft, shaky breath. "That’s four," I whisper

Valentina POVThe echoes of Carmela’s words hung in the sterile hallway, heavy as wet cement.I pushed myself up off the floor, my legs trembling so violently I had to lean against the wall for support. The green velvet of my dress felt like a lead weight pressing into my skin.Carmela stood at the center of the corridor, flanked by her two bodyguards. But there was no dramatic anger in her face. No gloating smirk. No sharp flare of temper.Her expression was completely, terrifyingly blank. Her dark eyes were unblinking, smooth as polished slate, and utterly devoid of warmth, remorse, or maternal instinct. Looking at her wasn't like looking at a grieving grandmother or even an angry matriarch—it was like looking at a stone statue carved to enforce an empire.Without saying a single word, she reached into her crocodile-skin handbag. Her hand was steady, unhurried, and precise. She drew out a leather checkbook and a silver fountain pen, uncapped it

Valentina POVThe heavy double doors of Surgical Suite 4 swung shut with a quiet, terrifying hydraulic hiss.Across the glass pane, the red IN OPERATION light clicked on, casting a crimson glare over the polished linoleum floor. Inside, a federal surgical team—dispatched by Agent Derek within twenty minutes of Marco’s call—was already moving around Matteo’s small body. The rhythmic, mechanical ping of the state-of-the-art heart monitor seeped through the heavy door, steady and firm.Matteo was in surgery. He had a fighting chance.My knees finally gave out. I hit the floor right outside the surgical bay, the rich green velvet of my gala dress fanning out around me like ruined leaves.

Valentina POVThe smell of raw silk, warm oil, and industrial steam filled the air of the Prato textile mill at six in the morning.The heavy iron looms hummed in rhythmic, deafening thuds—clack-clack-thump, clack-clack-thump—weaving hundreds of golden threads into rich, lustrous yards of emerald velvet.I stood at the head of the cutting table, my hair pulled back into a severe knot, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. The dark green velvet dress from the gala was gone, replaced by a simple black linen blouse, sharp trousers, and flat leather work boots. Around my neck hung the silver thimble Marco had given me."Signora Greco," Giancarlo, the head master weaver, called out, wiping greased hands on his leather apron as he approached me. He was a silver-haired craftsman who had worked the Tuscan looms for forty years. "The thread count on the second batch of Venetian weave is holding at four hundred threads per inch. But the dyers in Como... they are r

Renzo POVThe small espresso machine in my office sputtered, dripping dark coffee into a porcelain cup, but my eyes were locked on the muted television screen mounted in the corner.The red ticker at the bottom of the RAI News 24 broadcast flamed across the screen in bold white letters:BREAKING: MARCO RICCI SURRENDERS TO FEDERAL AUTHORITIES IN FLORENCE — COOPERATION IN RICCI SYNDICATE INVESTIGATION CONFIRMED.I stared at the anchor's polished, unbothered face as images of the Santa Maria Nuova hospital entrance flashed on the screen.Marco Ricci. Surrendering?I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair and dialed an unlisted internal line on my encrypted phone. The call connected on the second ring."Draghi," a sharp, harried voice answered. Special Agent Draghi—the regional lead in Rome."It's Renzo," I said, stepping away from the desk, my eyes still fixed on the news footage. "What the hell is going on in Florence? The news sa