The Santoro villa's library smelled of old leather and secrets, the bookshelves towering as they consumed the midnight stillness. Candlelight flickered, casting jagged shadows on the spines of the old books, their titles shining in gold—Dante, Machiavelli—names that exhaled power.
Outside, a storm broke out, thunder shaking the leaded panes, rain scratching the windows like an animal wanting to come in. Valeria Costa's bare feet scraped against the Persian rug, her torn dress brushing her shins, the stolen key from the guard's pocket cold in her hand. Her heart raced—a frantic drumbeat—but her emerald eyes were steady, scanning the room for hints.
The knife strapped to her thigh was her courage. The pearl earring swinging against her skin was her mother's specter, urging her on.
She'd spent hours waiting, timing the guards' pacing, their boots vanishing into the howl of the storm. The side door of the library hidden behind a tapestry depicting a snarling lion—had opened to her key, its mechanism snapping like a clandestine promise.
Now she stood before Matteo Santoro's desk, a slab of oiled oak littered with papers, a half-full glass of whiskey, and the scent of his cedar cologne. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from hunger: for truth, for leverage, for something that could break his hold.
The photo in his car her face circled in red ink burned in her memory. He had followed her, observed her, even before the cathedral. Why?
Her breath caught as she rifled through the desk papers crunched like parched leaves. Invoices, coded ledgers nothing of use. Until her fingers paused at a locked drawer, its brass handle cold and unforgiving. She knelt, a hairpin tumbling from her tangled hair, and worked it into the lock. Her fingers stayed steady, even as the tempest raged.
The drawer creaked open with a soft scratch. Her heart leapt—released, wild animal. Inside: a thick, wrinkled folder that spilled photos—her, grinning in a Naples market, reading in a café, striding beneath an umbrella. Months old.
Her stomach churned. Sweat bloomed on her forehead as her fingers shook, the photos fluttering to the ground like dead leaves.
Matteo's obsession wasn't new. It was a shadow—patient, persistent—and she'd been its quarry.
Her rose tattoo burned beneath her sleeve, a flash of color as her gown slipped lower—a reminder of Elena, whose death had broken everything.
Was this connected?
Her fingers reached deeper into the drawer and met something dry—a letter, half-burned, the paper curling like charred skin. Matteo's handwriting—sharp and slanted.
Elena, I couldn't save you.
Valeria's breath froze. Her knees dug into the rug as the world spun. Her mother. Matteo. A secret older than her prison.
A floorboard groaned. She froze. Her heart thundered in her ribcage.
Matteo's shadow consumed the candlelight. He stood in the doorway, lean body outlined in flicker and storm, white shirt open, a silver cross glinting against his scarred chest. His gray eyes pinned hers—not with fury, but something bleaker. Intrigue. Hunger. A spark that matched the storm outside.
Her fingers curled around the letter. She didn't let go. Didn't flinch.
He stepped closer—his boots made no sound on the rug. The air between them pulsed like lightning behind the glass.
"Discover anything fascinating, principessa?"
His voice was husky, velvet edged with danger. His lips quirked as if he'd expected her.
The scent of cedar clung to him, mingling with whiskey. Valeria's heart pounded. Her body betrayed her—remembering the bathhouse, the sight of his naked, scarred form burned behind her eyes.
She stood, spine against the desk, chin lifted. She wouldn't cower.
The knife pressed into her thigh—a secret he couldn't see. But his gaze stripped her, reading every tremor in her fingers.
"How long have you been following me, you fucking sicko?"
She spat the words, sharp but trembling, fire in her gut. She shoved him—hand to chest—yet her fingers lingered, feeling warmth, the beat of his heart.
He didn't blink. Didn't move. He only leaned closer, his breath warm on her neck, a challenge unspoken.
"Long enough to know you're not what you appear," he murmured, his voice rasping. His eyes flicked to the photos on the floor. His fingers brushed her wrist—deliberate, asking her pulse.
Her breath hitched. She was caught between fury and something unfamiliar.
The storm roared. Thunder shook the shelves.
She stepped back—hip colliding with the desk. Papers rustled like secrets.
"You knew my mother."
She raised the burned letter, voice cracking, green eyes flaring.
"What happened to her?"
The words hovered like a dagger.
Matteo's jaw tightened. His hand twitched—then stilled. His cross gleamed in the candlelight, a silent confession she couldn't yet read.
Before he could answer, the door burst open.
Rocco Santoro strode in, black leather jacket creaking, hazel eyes sweeping the room.
"Nico's men are closing in on Naples," he said, low and brutal. "They raided a safehouse. Left bodies behind. They want her back—or they'll burn the city to the ground."
His eyes landed on the photos, the letter. His jaw clenched. A warning.
Matteo's eyes darkened, shoulders rigid, but he didn't look at Rocco. He didn't move from Valeria.
"Put her in her room," he said evenly.
But his hand brushed her wrist again, a blaze that lingered.
Valeria flinched, skin burning, mind spinning.
Rocco grabbed her arm—his grip harsh—but she yanked free, snarling.
"This isn't finished," she growled, voice low and deadly, her pearl earring swinging like a pendulum.
Matteo's mouth twisted, almost a smile. But his eyes were thunderclouds—full of storms and secrets.
Rocco dragged her into the hall. The library door slammed behind her. Candlelight died in the sudden gust.
Back in her bedroom, the barred windows mocked her. Rain carved trails down the glass like weeping angels.
Valeria collapsed onto the bed. Her soaked dress crumpled to the floor.
The letter shook in her hand.
Elena, I couldn't save you.
The words seared her. A puzzle unsolved.
Matteo wasn't just her captor—he was a clue. To her mother's assassination. To the war consuming her life.
Her rose tattoo throbbed—Elena's memory inked in pain.
She tucked the letter into her sleeve, beside the knife. Secrets piling like firewood.
Outside, the guard's cigarette ember flared in the dark.
Valeria's eyes narrowed. She counted seconds.
Planned moves.
The photos. The letter. Matteo's scars.
He thought her a pawn. But she was a queen.
And queens didn't break.
They burned.