Valentina's pov

I fastened a diamond earring in place, my fingers steady despite the storm raging in my chest. The dim glow of the chandelier cast soft shadows on my face, accentuating the sharp lines of my cheekbones, the cold certainty in my eyes. Power was a delicate thing—easily shattered, easily stolen—but tonight, it draped over me like an old lover, familiar and undeniable.
A quick glance at the clock made my jaw tighten. This charade was wasting my time.
I exhaled sharply, tossing back a sip of whiskey. The burn spread down my throat, bitter and unforgiving—a reminder that fire only knows how to consume.
"Let's go, Martin. I don't have all day for this son of a bitch," I muttered, rolling my shoulders to shake off the weight pressing against them. "I need to be back at the house by ten."
Martin smothered a smirk, but I caught it. He had been by my side since the moment my husband's blood dried, the only one who hadn't turned his back, the only one who hadn't doubted me. He didn't question my place in this world. He simply stood beside me, unwavering, and that was enough.
He handed me my purse, and without another word, we moved.
The scent of damp stone and aged oak filled my lungs as we descended into the cellar. Wooden barrels lined the walls, their surfaces slick with condensation, the air thick with the scent of wine and decay. A place where things aged. A place where things were forgotten,but I never forget,not anymore.

The cold metal door loomed before me, its surface scarred with time and violence. I pressed my palm against the heavy knob and pushed, the weight of it resisting before groaning open.
The air inside was thick—a suffocating blend of sweat, blood, and fear. The sharp, metallic scent coiled in my lungs, but I forced down the instinct to wrinkle my nose. Instead, I glanced at the floor, careful to keep my heels clean from the grime that stained the concrete.
Lifting my gaze, I found Antonio in the corner, his shirt rumpled and streaked with fresh blood. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he rolled his shoulders, his bare skin marred with the remnants of his morning's work.
"Good morning, Mr. Rivera." My voice was smooth, controlled, untouched by the carnage before me. I gestured toward the man tied to the chair, his face barely recognizable beneath the swelling and bruises. "I see you've been quite productive today."
Antonio chuckled, wiping a streak of red from his knuckles before giving me a slight bow. "Good morning, Belladonna." The nickname curled off his tongue like an old habit, laced with amusement and something dangerously close to reverence.
"He's all yours," he added, already rolling down his sleeves. "I need to change—this motherfucker ruined my brand-new shirt."
Without another word, he strode out, leaving behind only the steady drip of blood hitting the floor.
Martin chuckled beside me, dragging a chair across the concrete. The scrape echoed through the room, sharp and deliberate, before he set it down in front of the battered man.
"Shall we begin?" I murmured, lowering myself onto the chair with practiced ease, my every movement deliberate, controlled.
The man before me was barely recognizable—a swollen, bloodied mess of betrayal and bad decisions. Once, I might have felt something seeing him like this. Ten years ago, the sight of a beaten man would have sent my stomach twisting, my hands trembling. But now? Now, it was just business.
I had learned. I had adapted.
Fear had no place in my world, not if I wanted to survive. Not if I wanted to rule.
Luciano Moretti had named me his successor, and I had fought for that title. I earned my place in this Family, and I would not fall easily.
My gaze drifted to the man tied to the chair—the same man who, just days ago, had been my personal bodyguard. The one who was supposed to protect me, to take a bullet for me without hesitation.
Well, that was until he tried to poison me.
The audacity. The sheer, fucking audacity.
You can't trust anyone these days—not to lie, not to betray you, and certainly not to kill you.
"Rafael, my darling," I cooed, lowering myself to his level, my hands settling on his knees. A gentle touch, deceptively soft—until I squeezed. Hard. Right where I knew Antonio had already left his mark.
Rafael grunted, his body tensing beneath my grip, but I caught the flicker of pain in his eyes. Good.
"Did you enjoy your date with Antonio?" I mocked, tilting my head. His jaw clenched, his breath ragged, but I saw the rage bubbling beneath the surface.
"Fuck you, Valentina!" he spat, his blood-streaked saliva missing me by an inch.
I sighed, unimpressed, and turned lazily to Martin. "A napkin, please? Rafael seems determined to ruin my makeup."
As I stood, my eyes locked onto his. Fear. It was there, no matter how hard he tried to mask it. And God, did I love seeing it.
"Now, darling," I continued, smoothing down my dress, "who paid you to kill me?"
Rafael let out a hoarse laugh, his split lips stretching over bloodied teeth. "Who wouldn't pay to see you dead?"
Wrong answer.
My fist connected with his cheek before he even saw it coming. The impact sent his head snapping to the side, the sharp crack of bone against bone echoing through the room.
Martin let out a low whistle. "Damn."
I exhaled, shaking out my hand as I admired the imprint of my rings on his face. A signature. A reminder.
"Let's try this again." My voice was calm, almost sweet. "Who wants me dead, Rafael?"
He lifted his head slowly, his swollen eyes narrowing. "I won't tell you," he rasped. "You don't deserve to run the mafia. You are nothing. You should be rotting in the ground next to your husband."
Ah. There it was.
I turned to Martin, raising a single finger. Time for Rafael's surprise.
Without hesitation, Martin handed me a small glass bottle. I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling the coolness of the liquid inside.
I smiled, my gaze never leaving his. "You know, Rafael, you tried to poison me. A very strong poison, I might add. I admire your initiative. It's potent enough to take down a rat with just 0.5 ml. But I've got 5 ml here, because you're not just any rat, are you?"
I tightened my grip around his throat, feeling the pulse beneath my fingers, relishing the surge of control. This was power—pure and unfiltered. His eyes bulged, veins popping in his temples as I squeezed harder, watching them darken. The pressure built, and I could feel every second of it, every twitch of his struggling body.
"Last chance, darling," I whispered, my voice honeyed and cold. "Who are you working for?"
I loosened my grip just enough for him to speak, savoring the desperation in his eyes.
"I work for the man who will burn your Kingdom to the ground," he choked, his voice rough but defiant.
I shook my head, a mock sympathy twisting my lips. "Oh, what a waste of potential you were."
I squeezed harder, his breath turning into rasping gasps, his lips parting in a final attempt to speak. Without hesitation, I yanked his mouth open, disregarding his weak attempts to fight me. I poured the yellowish liquid down his throat, watching it slip down his esophagus like a death sentence.
He gasped—a brief, futile struggle, the last echo of life in his body. I let the moments stretch, watching as his body arched, his spine stiffened, and his face twisted in horror as the poison took hold.
The convulsions came next, violent and jerking, his neck snapping in sickening jolts.
I leaned back in my chair, savoring every twist, every shudder, every final moment. The sound of his body breaking was a symphony in my ears.
"Bye." I mockingly waved at his convulsing form, my eyes glinting with dark satisfaction.
No one messes with Valentina Moretti.
I stood, clicking my heels as I approached Martin. "Would you clean up this mess for me, please?"
Martin nodded, unfazed, slipping out of his jacket and preparing for his usual task.
As I walked towards the door, I cast one last glance over my shoulder. "And please, find me a trustworthy bodyguard this time. This one seems to had had a very bad case of indigestion."