QUEEN OF THE UNDERWORLD

Valentina's hands trembled as she poured herself a glass of whiskey. Not from fear—never that—but from the echo of too many close calls. The liquid sloshed slightly in the cut-glass tumbler. Moonlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Virelli safehouse, casting pale silver across her bruised knuckles.

Bryan sat on the armrest across from her, shirtless, wrapping gauze around his forearm. Blood had dried in a trail down his wrist. The silence between them had teeth. After Elena's fall, after Matteo was safe and unconscious in the next room, neither had said much.

"You should rest," he said quietly.

"I don't rest," she murmured. "I wait. I plot."

A faint smile touched his mouth. "Right. The Queen never sleeps. Just schemes."

She sipped the whiskey, and her eyes flicked up to him. "You remember that now? After all the years you spent forgetting me?"

Bryan looked down, jaw tightening. "I didn't forget. I forced it out. There's a difference."

"Why?" she asked.

He hesitated.

"You were fire," he said finally. "And I wasn't ready to burn."

Valentina's throat tightened. She set the glass down, walked toward him.

Her gaze was sharp, but her voice was a whisper. "And now?"

Bryan's eyes met hers—dark, steady, dangerous.

"Now I'd let it consume me."

They stood like that for a long beat—just breath, tension, and shared scars.

Before either could close the space between them, Matteo groaned from the next room.

Valentina blinked, the moment snapping like a wire pulled too tight.

She turned.

Bryan didn't follow. But his eyes lingered.

⸻

Matteo sat propped against the pillows, his curls a tangled mess and his lip split open.

"You look like shit," Valentina said.

He chuckled hoarsely. "I was hoping for 'heroic,' but thanks."

She softened, sitting beside him. "You shouldn't have gone after Elena alone."

"I had to," Matteo croaked. "She had intel. On… the vault. Your father's ledger."

Valentina stilled. "The hidden accounts?"

Matteo nodded slowly. "She said you're not the only heir."

Her blood went cold. "What?"

"She said someone else has a claim. Someone no one's seen in years. A name erased. But not dead."

Valentina stood abruptly. "She was bluffing."

Matteo shook his head. "She wasn't."

⸻

Later that night, as wind howled against the glass, Valentina found herself outside on the balcony. Her coat flapped behind her like a banner. The city below glittered with promise and threat.

Bryan joined her silently, leaning on the railing beside her.

"Was there someone else?" she asked.

"In Elena's game?" he murmured. "Always."

"No. I mean—when you were gone. Hiding."

Bryan didn't answer at first. Then: "No one like you."

Valentina turned her head slightly. "You still belong to me?"

His eyes burned with something ancient. "I never stopped."

She stepped closer.

Not touching. Not yet.

But the air was hot, heavy.

Then her phone buzzed.

A message from a number long dead.

Just coordinates.

Nothing more.

Valentina's pulse kicked.

"What is it?" Bryan asked.

She showed him the screen.

His eyes widened. "That's not possible. That's—"

"Where my father was killed," she finished. "And where his secrets were buried."

She looked at him, and there was no fear in her voice—just resolve. "We leave at dawn."

He nodded.

"I'm with you," he said.

"Even if it ends badly?"

He took her hand.

"Especially then."