Present – St. Ignazio Academy, Midnight
Alessio sat at the edge of his narrow bed. The envelope was still sealed. His hands hovered over it, unsure.
It wasn't fear.
It was reverence.
For twenty-one years, no one had dared speak plainly of Sienna Black's death. Only whispers. "An illness." "An accident." But never the truth. Never the fire that burned her name into the underworld like a curse.
Now the truth sat in his palm.
He opened it slowly, carefully. The parchment inside smelled faintly of jasmine and smoke—his mother's scent.
The Letter:
"My sweet Alessio,
If you are reading this, it means I am gone.
And that I've left you the blood crown with all its serpents.
There is a war that I kept from you. One I silenced with my own hands. But I never wanted this life to touch you.
You were my light. The last piece of your father I ever held.
But fate is cruel, and destiny is not gentle with the children of fire.
You will hear many stories of me. Some true, some monstrous.
But only one matters:
I loved you. Fiercely. Completely.
And I made a vow the day you were born —
That no man would ever control your name, your choices, or your throne.
If Lía has given you this, it means I trusted her with what I feared most:
That you would inherit not just my empire… but my enemies.
There is a list. Fifteen names. Ricci was last.
Thirteen are gone. Two remain.
They think you are unblooded.
That you are not me.
But you are more than I ever was.
Let mercy be your weapon.
Let wrath be your choice.
The world will call you a prince.
Let them.
Only you will know… you were born from a queen.
And I died making sure they would never break your crown.
—Mamma"
The ink was smudged in one place. A single drop.
Maybe blood. Maybe a tear.
He didn't know which made his heart ache more.
---
#Flashback: The Final Night – Sienna & Lía#
Location: Sicily, 21 Years Ago – The Fortress of Shadows
It was past midnight. The villa was silent, wrapped in the kind of hush that only comes before a storm. Lía stood in the balcony hallway, dressed in black, eyes fixed on Sienna as she leaned against the railing, her figure half-wrapped in a silk robe.
Sienna looked… different.
Younger. Yet older. Her face softer but carved with wear.
"The doctors say I have time," Sienna said without turning.
"But what do they know of death?"
Lía stepped forward, unsure if she should speak.
"You've cheated death before," she replied.
"Why not again?"
Sienna laughed softly—like wind brushing dry roses.
"Because this time, it doesn't wear a suit or carry a gun."
"This time… it grows inside me."
Lía froze. Then understood.
"You're sick."
Sienna turned to her. And for the first time, she looked like a woman, not a queen.
"They poisoned me. Years ago. Ricci's doing. Slow, subtle. Took a decade to show."
"I knew. But I needed time. Time to raise him. Time to give him a chance."
She walked toward Lía, pressed a sealed letter into her hand.
"He'll find you. One day. When he's ready."
"Don't tell him how I died… tell him why I lived."
Tears burned behind Lía's eyes.
"You're not afraid?"
"Terrified. But I've lived my life making men afraid of me.
If I die now… I die undefeated."
Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out an ornate blade. Blackened steel. Crimson edge.
"Give him this too. When he's ready."
"He'll know what to do with it."
---
#Back to Present#
Alessio stared at the blade now. Lía had placed it gently on the desk beside him after he read the letter. The black steel shimmered under the moonlight.
"She died poisoned," he whispered.
Lía nodded. Silent.
"Ricci?"
"He laced her wine with a delayed toxin. Years before he fled."
Alessio stood, staring out the window.
"So all of this… everything she built… she did while dying?"
"Yes," Lía said softly.
"And she never let anyone see the pain."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Alessio said quietly:
"I want the list."
Lía looked up. Saw it in his eyes.
Not just fire.
But control.
Sienna's son was no longer a boy.
He was the storm coming.
And somewhere in Europe, Ricci would soon feel the wind change.
---
#The Debt Collector#
Present — Budapest, Hungary
It was snowing when Alessio stepped out of the black car. He wore no coat, only a tailored black suit, the collar crisp against his throat. His mother's blade—Lama Nera—rested inside a hidden sheath.
Lía stood by his side, cloaked in a long trench, eyes narrowed as they scanned the old opera house.
"Are you sure he's here?" Alessio asked.
"He never left Budapest. He's gotten too comfortable," Lía replied.
"Then it's time to wake him."
The opera house had been abandoned since the 90s. But tonight, candlelight flickered inside. Men with silver hair and fat rings gathered in secret to toast their stolen peace.
Domenico Savera sat at the center of it all, swirling brandy in his glass. His laughter echoed, but his eyes—sunken and paranoid—never truly smiled.
Until he saw the boy.
"Chi sei tu?" he barked. (Who are you?)
Alessio stepped forward, unmoved. "Alessio Black."
Savera's face fell pale.
"Black?" he whispered. "No… You're dead. Your mother—"
"Mia madre è morta, sì." (My mother is dead, yes.)
"Ma il suo fuoco brucia in me." (But her fire burns in me.)
The room silenced. The other men began backing away, one by one. They had seen this play before—twenty-one years ago.
Alessio stepped closer.
"Sapevo che eri codardo." (I knew you were a coward.)
"But I thought you'd at least stand before you die."
Savera trembled, setting his drink down with a clink. "I didn't know… I didn't know she was dying!"
"No, but you knew she was dangerous. So you joined Ricci. You helped him poison her. You signed her death warrant."
"And now… I'm here to collect."
Domenico fell to his knees. "Please… please. I have a family—"
"Così aveva anche lei." (So did she.)
"And yet none of you spared her."
Alessio unsheathed Lama Nera, the blade his mother left behind. The opera walls seemed to echo with the ghosts of the past.
Lía stepped behind Domenico, pulling a crimson matte lipstick from her coat.
She whispered:
"Un bacio per la regina." (A kiss for the queen.)
And left a scarlet print on his forehead before the blade sang.
The room fell silent again. Only one echo remained.
"Due restano," Alessio whispered. (Two remain.)
He wiped the blade clean.
And somewhere in Europe, Ricci's ears must have burned.
---
#Shadows Don't Tremble#
They left Domenico's corpse in the opera house—just like the old days.
Outside, the snow was heavier now, blanketing Budapest in a stillness that felt almost holy. Alessio leaned against the car, chest rising slowly, eyes staring at his blood-stained gloves.
Lía didn't speak at first. She simply lit a cigarette, handed it to him.
"Non pensare. Respira." (Don't think. Just breathe.)
He took a long drag, smoke curling through the night like a ribbon of sin.
"I didn't hesitate," he said softly.
"But I didn't feel human either."
"Then you did it right," she replied.
They drove through the night. The city blurred past in lights and neon reflection.
"Was it always like this for her?" he asked suddenly.
"My mother?"
Lía glanced sideways. "Not at first. The first man she killed, she threw up afterward. She didn't eat for two days."
"And then?"
"Then she looked in the mirror and whispered—
'È solo l'inizio.' (It's only the beginning.)
And she never looked back."
Silence again. Alessio rested his head against the window.
"What if I become like them?" he asked.
"What if this curse runs deeper than I thought?"
"It's not a curse," Lía said firmly.
"È un'eredità." (It's a legacy.)
"And legacies are forged. Not born."
---
They stopped at a safehouse outside of Lake Balaton—an old stone cottage surrounded by black trees and water like glass.
Inside, an old map had been spread across the wooden table. Fifteen names. Only two remained.
Ricci.
And Cesare Bianchi—his brutal right hand. The last wall before the lion's den.
"Where is Cesare now?" Alessio asked.
"Venice," Lía replied. "He's the ghost you need to chase before Ricci.
Ricci won't run until Cesare is gone."
Alessio stood over the map, fists clenched.
"Then we go to Venice."
---
Outside, the lake shimmered beneath a blood-red moon.
And in the house where fire once burned, the son of a queen prepared to finish what had begun twenty-one years ago.
Vendetta non dimentica. (A vendetta never forgets.)
---
#The Fire Between#
#Location: A snow-covered lodge outside Verona#
Time: One night before heading to Venice
The fire crackled gently, casting amber light on the stone walls. The only sounds were the hush of the wind outside, and the faint clink of a whiskey glass in Alessio's hand.
He sat on the edge of the couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, his black hair falling messily into his eyes. The shadows of what he had done hadn't left his gaze.
Lía stood near the window, arms crossed, back to him. She had let her hair down for the first time in months. Long, thick strands of dark chestnut framed her face. Her figure, lit by moonlight, seemed both untouchable and familiar.
"You haven't slept," Alessio said.
"Neither have you," she replied, still facing the snow.
He watched her, her silhouette outlined against the frost-streaked glass. She looked strong. But something in her posture was… off.
"Why do you do it?" he asked softly.
"Stay. Follow me. Protect me."
She turned slowly, her eyes unreadable.
"Because your mother asked me to."
"That was twenty-one years ago."
Silence stretched between them. Then Alessio stood, walked closer, only a foot between them.
"And if she hadn't asked?" he said.
"Would you still be here?"
Lía's throat tightened. She looked away—but he stepped into her space.
"Lía… guardami." (Look at me.)
She did.
Their breath mingled in the air between them. Her eyes, full of steel and memory, flicked to his lips for half a second before she caught herself.
"You're young," she said.
"And I'm not the woman you think you need."
"I don't think," Alessio whispered. "I feel."
A pause. Her voice was softer now:
"Sai cosa stai facendo?" (Do you know what you're doing?)
"No.
But I know I've never felt safer than when you're near."
He reached for her hand—just brushed it. She didn't pull away.
"Just for tonight," she murmured.
"Just tonight," he agreed.
But they both knew the lie.
Because once fire meets fire, there's no turning back.
---
#Whispers in Venice#
Venice, Italy — Dawn
Fog clung to the city like a secret. The water shimmered under a pale sun, and gondolas rocked gently like sighs on the canal.
Alessio stepped off the boat, boots clicking on the ancient stones of Campo San Polo. He wore a long black coat, collar turned up. Lía followed, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, her expression unreadable—just like the night before.
Neither had spoken of what happened—or almost happened.
But silence, between them, now said too much.
"He's staying in a villa behind the basilica," Lía said, voice crisp.
"Cesare Bianchi. He's protected. Three men. All ex-military."
"Three men won't be enough," Alessio replied.
They walked the narrow alleyways of Venice, flanked by stone and water. Tourists moved like ghosts, unaware that vengeance had arrived in their city.
At a café, Alessio paused. "Colazione?" (Breakfast?)
Lía hesitated. "Sì."
They sat under the awning, sipping espresso. The tension crackled more than the coffee steamed.
"About last night…" Alessio began.
She cut him off gently, without malice.
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because we don't have time for mistakes. Not now."
"And that's what it was to you?" he asked, voice low.
"A mistake?"
Her eyes flicked up to meet his—storm-dark and unreadable.
"No. That's the problem."
They sat in silence, the air between them tighter than ever.
Just then, her burner phone buzzed. One of the Daughters. A coded message:
"The wolf has entered the glass den."
She showed it to Alessio.
"He's inside. With a mistress."
"Then he's not expecting us," he said.
"He's never met you. They think you're still a boy."
Alessio stood.
"Let's show them how wrong they are."
---
As they disappeared into the labyrinth of Venice, neither looked back.
But both knew: the line had been crossed.
Whatever happened in the shadows now, was not just revenge—it was something more dangerous.
Something personal.
---