Rain dripped in lazy rivulets down the stained-glass windows of the Scarlatti mausoleum, where marble angels wept in silence. The stone beneath Valentina's heels echoed her presence with every step—a sharp click, measured and lethal. Black lace clung to her skin like ash, soaked from the storm she refused to take an umbrella through. Mourning wasn't meant to be dry.
Inside the tomb, candles burned low and gold, casting shadows on the crypts like ghosts reaching for her. Her father's name—Don Enzo Scarlatti—was etched into polished granite in bold, final letters. Below it, the words "Beloved Leader. Devoted Father." She nearly laughed.
A lie, immortalized in stone.
Valentina lifted the sheer veil from her face, revealing eyes as cold as the rain: violet-gray and sharp enough to slice. She stared at the tomb as if daring it to speak, to apologize, to explain.
"Rot, old man," she whispered.
Behind her, the heavy doors creaked. She didn't turn.
"You came alone?" asked a voice smooth like aged brandy, but with an edge—Bryan Moretti.
She turned now.
Bryan stood half in shadow, soaked in black from coat to boots, his dark hair damp and clinging to his brow. Even the rain respected him—only licking the edges. He was carved from grit and grudges, and his stare made her ribs feel like a cage.
"This isn't a truce, Bryan," Valentina said calmly, folding her hands like a prayer she didn't believe in. "I didn't invite you."
"You didn't have to," he replied. "Your father's death was an invitation all on its own."
She let a beat pass. The air between them was thick with history and blood. The Scarlatti and Moretti names weren't families—they were empires built on vendettas and cash. Their fathers had tried to burn each other out of existence for twenty years.
Now, the king was dead. And the daughter stood in his ashes.
"What do you want?" she asked, not flinching.
"To see who takes the throne," Bryan said. "And whether she'll burn the kingdom or bury it."
Valentina moved closer, unbothered. "I didn't come back for peace. Or revenge. I came to collect what's mine."
"Funny," Bryan said, his lips curling into something cold. "Everyone else thinks you came to die."
⸻
The funeral was a masquerade of power.
The church pews were filled with wolves in silk and assassins in designer suits. The Scarlatti name still commanded fear—even in death. But it was Valentina everyone watched now. Some with hope, some with hate, all with hunger.
She walked down the aisle like it was a runway of blood. Behind her, Nina De Becky trailed in silence—her shadow, her blade, her one true constant. No one knew Nina's story, only that Valentina had saved her once, and ever since, she'd been saving Valentina right back.
The priest said something about legacy and mercy. Valentina didn't listen.
She scanned the pews and locked eyes with Rafael Moretti—Bryan's older brother and the current Moretti patriarch. His smile was polished, hollow, and venomous.
She smiled back.
Let them wonder what her return meant. Let them whisper behind funeral fans and clink glasses in corner booths about whether Valentina Scarlatti had the stomach to rule.
They had no idea what she'd already survived.
⸻
Later, back at the Vellaro Estate—her father's gothic monstrosity perched above the city like a crown of rot—Valentina found herself alone in his study. The room reeked of cigar smoke and iron. His chair still faced the fireplace.
She sat in it.
A moment passed. Then two.
The leather still held his shape. She sank into it like it was swallowing her whole, then leaned forward and opened the drawer she knew he kept locked.
Inside: a pistol, three red envelopes marked with wax, and a pendant she hadn't seen since she was twelve.
The gun she ignored. The envelopes she pocketed. The pendant… she held.
It was warm, impossibly. And heavy, like memory.
A voice crackled from the door. "If you sit there long enough, you start hearing his voice."
Nina.
Valentina didn't look back. "Let him speak, then. Let him explain why he tried to have me killed."
Silence. Then: "You think it was him?"
Valentina turned, eyes hard. "It was his knife. His men. His orders."
Nina walked in, closed the door, and poured two drinks from the crystal decanter. "Then let's burn them all."
Valentina took the glass.
"To the Queen of the Underworld," Nina said.
Valentina clinked the rim against hers. "Long may she reign."
And long may she be feared.