Chapter 2 LUCIEN VALENTI'S POV

There's something about a woman who looks at you like she's already planned your murder.

It makes you want to know where she hid the knife.

"She hates you," Nico said as soon as the door shut behind me.

I didn't look at him. Just loosened my tie and walked toward the bar in my study.

"Everyone hates me," I said.

"Yeah, but she means it. Like. Deep in her bones."

"Good. Makes things simpler."

Nico slumped into the leather chair across from the fireplace. His suit jacket was open, tie undone, like he'd been drinking half the night. Probably had.

"You really going to let her just walk around here like a queen?" he asked. "Like she's not a Moretti?"

"She's my wife now."

"Yeah, and I married a bottle of scotch once. Doesn't mean I trusted it not to bite me in the morning."

I poured myself two fingers of whiskey and turned to face him. "Did you dig into her background like I asked?"

He blinked. "What, you thought I'd forget?"

"Sometimes I hope."

Nico scowled, then reached into his coat and tossed a thin file onto the table. "There. The golden princess. Clean record. Educated. Speaks three languages. Trained in diplomacy, strategy, and piano."

"Piano?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Real innocent, huh?" He leaned back. "She also refused to take any of the Moretti operations after her brother died. You think she's soft. She's not."

"I don't think she's soft," I said.

"Then what do you think?"

I looked out the window. The house was still. Dark. But I could feel her presence inside it. A spark of heat beneath the ice. "I think she's dangerous."

"And you married her anyway."

"That was the point."

Nico stood. "You know I don't like this. None of this. She's not here for peace. She's here for revenge."

I finished my drink in one swallow. "Let her try."

The halls were quiet when I made my way toward the east wing. No guards followed. I didn't need them. Not in my own house.

But something was off.

The moment I turned the corner, I felt it. Air. Movement. A shift.

Her door was cracked open.

And no guard in sight.

I walked straight in.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her robe half-open, her feet bare, hair loose around her shoulders. And in her hands was an envelope.

She didn't look up.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Do you always walk into people's rooms uninvited?"

"When I own the house, yes."

She held up the envelope like it weighed something. "This was in the drawer."

I stepped closer. My eyes scanned the front. One word written in a jagged red script.

Enzo.

I froze.

"Where did you get that?"

"I just told you."

"That wasn't there before."

Her eyes snapped to mine. "You checked my lingerie drawers?"

"I check everything."

"Of course you do," she muttered.

I reached for the envelope, but she pulled it back.

"No."

"Alessia."

"No," she repeated, standing. "This is my brother's name. This is my room. This is mine."

"You don't know what's inside."

"And you do?"

"I know a threat when I see one."

Her eyes narrowed. "Or maybe you just don't want me to read what he had to say."

My jaw tightened. "He's dead."

"Yes. He is. And you're the only person who ever profited from that."

I stepped closer. "Careful."

She didn't back down. "Why? Will you kill me too?"

Silence fell between us. Thick. Unmoving.

Then I said, "Open it."

She hesitated. Just a flicker of it.

Then she tore the seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Her eyes scanned the words. As she read, her expression changed. Confusion. Shock. Then something colder.

She handed it to me without a word.

I read the message.

There is more blood on your father's hands than mine. He betrayed his own. Follow the money. You'll see the truth.

No signature. No date.

My blood went still.

"You recognize the handwriting?" she asked.

I nodded once. "Yes."

She stared at me. "Who?"

"Someone who should be dead."

Her voice lowered. "So this is real."

"Yes."

She stepped back, like the ground beneath her had shifted.

"You said you didn't kill him," she said quietly. "When we spoke earlier."

"I didn't."

"But you know who did."

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't unraveling. She was calculating. Like a queen pushed to the edge of her board.

"Why would someone plant this here now?" she asked.

"To cause division."

"Between us?"

"Between families."

She laughed, hollow and bitter. "There's no 'us,' Lucien."

I stepped forward. "Not yet."

Her lips parted slightly, but I didn't give her time to speak.

I leaned down, my voice low. "You want the truth? Then stop playing house and start watching the people closest to you. The ones you trust."

"Don't you dare twist this."

"I'm not twisting anything. You're just not seeing straight."

She folded the note and placed it back in the envelope.

Then she said, "If I find out you're lying to me..."

"You'll what?"

"I'll bury you."

I smiled. "Promise?"

She didn't answer.

She walked to the window and stared out into the night. Her spine was straight. Her shoulders squared.

She wasn't breaking.

She was waking up.

"You're not going to sleep tonight, are you?" I asked.

"No."

"Good."

I turned to leave. Paused in the doorway. "The guard outside your room. He didn't abandon post. He was pulled."

Her head turned. "By who?"

"That's what I'm going to find out."

And when I stepped out, the hallway was darker than before. Heavier. Like something had slithered through it just moments before.

I reached for my phone and called the only person I trusted inside these walls.

"Matteo," I said when the line picked up.

"Yes, sir."

"Someone moved the guard outside my wife's door. Without my order."

A pause.

"I'll check the roster."

"You won't find it there."

Another pause. Tighter now.

"Understood."

I ended the call.

Halfway down the corridor, I stopped at a painting on the wall. A classic oil piece. Gaudy. But behind it, a hidden panel.

I pressed it.

A small screen lit up.

Security footage.

I scrolled back to an hour earlier.

And there it was.

A figure. Hooded. Moving through the east hall. Reaching the guard. Leaning in.

The guard walked away.

The figure stepped into Alessia's room.

Twenty seconds.

Then back out.

I paused the screen. Rewound. Froze the frame on the face that lifted just for a moment beneath the hood.

My blood went cold.

It was someone I had buried five years ago.

Someone I had watched die.

Someone who should not exist.

He was alive.

And he was inside my house.