Chapter 1 BENEATH MILAN'S SKIN

Milan never sleeps. Not really.

It hums, beneath the marble façades and high fashion and espresso bars, beneath the opera houses and cathedrals and curated illusions. There's a current under it all. Dark. Pulsing. Mine.

I stood at the edge of the rooftop, cigarette between my fingers, watching the city I've bled for. Below, men moved crates into a black van. Inside those crates were antique vases, imported wine, and something worth far more than both, powdered escape, wrapped in airtight bags, hidden under.

I didn't need to look to know who was in charge of the shipment. Luca, my cousin. Loyal. Violent. Not too bright, but he knew how to follow orders. That's all that mattered. At least he was competent, that would count for something. In our world? It didn't matter if you were family, loyalty was the only thing that kept you alive.

"Shipment's secure," Luca said, appearing behind me like a shadow. "No bumps, no mistakes, we're good to go."

I nodded. "Good, tell them to move fast. I want it across the border before sunrise." As much as there were no mistakes, I couldn't take any chances.

He paused for a bit. "Papà wants to see you."

I flicked ash off the edge of the rooftop. Of course he did. Don Moretti never liked being sidelined, even by his own blood. Especially by his daughter, to him, it was way too risky.

"I'll be home soon, I just have a tiny bit of business to take care of." I said practically dismissing him.

Luca disappeared down the stairs. Another reason I liked working with him, he didn't question anything I did. He just did it.

I turned on my heel and headed to the lower floor, where our prisoner was waiting. I wasn't called the ice queen for no reason.

---

His name was Gianni Russo. He worked for us until he decided he wanted more than his cut. Thought he could skim from the top, lie about numbers, and sell our routes to someone hungrier. Stupidity isn't a crime in this world. Disloyalty is.

He was tied to a chair in the middle of the darkened storage room, I grinned wickedly, I was so going to enjoy this. It gave me some sort of satisfaction, taking out people who did not deserve to live. Above him was a single bulb hung, flickering like it couldn't decide if he deserved light or not.

I circled him slowly.

He looked up when I stepped in. Blood on his lip. A black eye. But his mouth still worked.

"Alessia," he said hoarsely. "Come on. We go way back-"

"We don't." I stepped into the light. "You went back. That's your problem."

"I didn't sell you out. I swear on my mother..."

"Your mother's dead," I said. "And so are you."

Panic flickered in his eyes. "Wait, wait. Please."

"Who bought the route?"

He stayed quiet, wrong move. Everyone who knew me knew I hated repeating myself two times. It was exhausting and frankly, I wasn't a woman of too many words.

I stepped forward and pressed two fingers to the base of his throat. My touch was light, at least for now.

"I'll ask you once more, Gianni," I said, voice low and smooth. "Who did you sell to?"

He broke. They always do, my subconscious smiled in excitement.

"Caprini. Paolo Caprini in Turin. He offered triple. I didn't mean to...I thought I could feed him fake info, keep ours safe-"

He was lying again. The stuttering. The flick of his eyes. He was trying to negotiate survival. Another thing I hated, unnecessary negotiations.

Pity.

I took the silenced pistol from the table beside him. His breath hitched.

"I didn't want to die," he whispered.

"No one ever does," I murmured, and pulled the trigger.

One shot. Clean. Through the skull. He slumped, head twisted like a broken doll.

Silence returned to the room, a shaky breath escaped me. He's just another addition Ale.

I looked down at him for a long moment.

Then I put a call through to Luca.

"There's a body in the storage room, clean the place up and burn it. ," I said. "Make it look like a message."

"To Caprini?"

I smiled faintly into the darkness. "No, to anyone watching."

---

The Moretti estate sat on the northern edge of Milan, sprawling and vine-covered, like something out of a wine commercial. My father liked appearances, marble floors, crystal bright chandeliers, Italian gold dripping from the walls, mostly stolen. A palace built on powder and blood.

I walked in and found him in the study, slumped in his armchair, drink in hand, tie loosened.

"My bella," he said, eyes glassy. "Come sit." He was drunk again, it had become a routine since mom passed, I was used to it by now.

I stayed standing. "You asked for me?"

He smiled. Crooked, mean, dangerous.

"There's talk," he said. "You're getting soft."

"From whom?"

He shrugged. "Men who don't like women giving orders."

"They can die angry."

He chuckled. "That's my girl."

But I saw the warning in his eyes. The tightening of his jaw. He didn't want a girl. He wanted a soldier. And the fact that I'd outgrown both made me dangerous, to him most of all. He had always wanted a son, it was not a hidden fact.

"You did well with Gianni," he said after a pause. "Quick. Clean. No mess."

"I won't make a mess."

He raised his glass in a toast. "To queens who know when to kill."

I didn't drink. I left him to his ghosts and his liquor. That was his problem.

Out in the hallway, I stopped by the grand mirror that stretched from ceiling to floor.

My reflection stared back-black coat, silk blouse, eyes like steel.

They called me the daughter of a king, but I was never his daughter, I was just an instrument in his many collections. I was a blade he forged and didn't know how to control.

And people out there were always willing to taste how sharp I was, I never disappointed them.