THE BASTARD SON OF THE VIKINGS
He knew better than to push further.
Lucia’s world contracted to shadows and the cold steel of power. She still ruled the Vikings’ network with ruthless precision, but cracks showed where warmth should have been. Her lieutenants began to murmur, noting that their fearless leader had become sharper, colder, unapproachable. Palermo’s underworld respected fear, but they despised cruelty that threatened the innocent—even a child.
Yet none dared speak aloud.
The infant grew, and so did the whispers.
“The son of Valenti,” they muttered in the back alleys. “The bastard who carries the blood of a wolf who abandoned him.”
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