Chapter 3

The next morning, I prepared breakfast as usual.

As I reached for my car keys, the study door opened.

“Sera,” Lucien said, dark circles faint beneath his eyes. “Take the day off. By five this afternoon, make a concealable self-defense pistol based on this design.”

He handed me his phone.

On the screen was Lucinda’s sketch—a small, delicate handgun, smooth lines, red enamel inlaid in the grip with a playful puppy, and the name “Lucinda” in cursive.

The red matched exactly the handle of the whip I had returned the night before.

Since we’d been together, every year on his “birthday” or after a successful “deal,” I had personally modified or crafted a weapon for him.

It had once been our unspoken ritual.

Now the honor belonged to Lucinda.

I looked at the cartoonish sketch for several seconds.

He seemed to sense something amiss and softened slightly. “Lucinda will start handling peripheral affairs next week. She needs something decent for protection. I trust your craftsmanship.”

I nodded. “Send me the specs.”

Seven years ago, at a Cassiani family banquet, I had been cornered on the terrace by cousins from the main branch.

“Bastard branch blood thinks she deserves the main table?”

A glass of red wine had been flung at me.

It was Lucien—then merely the heir of the Moretti family—who had stepped in front of me.

Wine soaked his lapel, but he didn’t look down. He only sneered.

“Bloodline? Anyone who still believes that should already be buried in the old cemetery. Power comes from what you can hold in your hands.”

In that moment, I’d thought the arrogant man glowed.

Later, I clawed my way up through the bloody succession battles and stood at his side—helped him expand in secret.

This gun would repay that sentence.

After this, Lucien Moretti and I would be even.

…

By eight that evening, he called.

“Sera, where are you?”

“In the workshop. Why?”

“No reason. Just wanted to say—the gun you made for Cinda. It’s excellent. As perfect as ever.”

It was the closest a godfather came to saying thank you.

Before I could respond, Lucinda’s bright, breathy laughter filtered through.

“Sister Sera? I heard from Connie you made me a birthday gift yourself? Really? You’re amazing! I’m so clumsy—I can’t even hold a gun steady. Connie always calls me his ‘little troublemaker.’”

She invited me to a small party at the estate.

Lucien cut in at once. “Sera, you don’t need to come.”

He ended the call.

Minutes later, an encrypted coordinate arrived.

*On your way, pick up rose-gold custom shells from Old Vito’s shop for Cinda.*

…

When I reached the estate’s side recreation room, cigar smoke and sweet liquor hung heavy in the dim light.

Lucien stood behind Lucinda, hands over hers, guiding her grip on the pistol—intimate.

He frowned at my arrival. “Didn’t I tell you not to come?”

Lucinda pouted. “Connie, it’s my fault. I messaged Sister Sera secretly. I wanted those pretty shells…”

He pinched her nose fondly. “Greedy little thing.”

Once I confirmed he was in good spirits, I stepped forward and handed him the “handover documents” along with routine procurement lists requiring his signature.

“Mr. Moretti, these need your approval.”

His attention remained on Lucinda. Without even glancing at the titles, he signed.

Exactly what I needed.

As I turned to leave, Lucinda suddenly gasped. “Seraphina, that red string bracelet on your wrist looks so familiar! I’ve seen one just like it in Connie’s study trash can!”

I looked down at the woven bracelet—handmade by Lucien. The only token of our relationship.

“It’s nothing special,” I said evenly. “If you like it, you can have it.”

She didn’t take it.

I left without waiting.

At the end of the corridor, I removed the bracelet and dropped it into the trash.

My phone vibrated.

Charles’s report on Lucinda.

Lucinda Moretti was not adopted.

She was Gabriele’s illegitimate daughter.

Her mother—a socialite—had died in a car accident ten years ago. Gabriele had taken her in out of guilt.

But she’d displayed a dangerous possessiveness toward Lucien from childhood. Three years ago, Gabriele had forced her to Switzerland.

Two months ago, Gabriele died of heart failure.

The autopsy showed trace amounts of digitalis.

Lucinda had purchased large quantities of digitalis-based medication before returning, citing “insomnia.”

She poisoned her own father.

Then moved in with her half-brother.

I let out a cold laugh.

Let this be my final gift to Lucien.

“Charles,” I said in a voice message, “withdraw all Cassiani lines from the Moretti family within seventy-two hours. Leak intelligence on both our adorable heirs to each other. I’m coming back personally.”

Originally, I’d planned to manipulate them from the shadows until they destroyed each other.

Now I didn’t feel like waiting.

“Understood,” Charles said. “We’re waiting for you, Boss.”

“Soon.”

The elevator doors opened.

Before I stepped in, an explosion of shattering glass and screams erupted from the recreation room—another attack on Lucien.

I instinctively moved a few steps toward it.

I saw Lucien pull Lucinda into his arms and retreat toward the evacuation passage. Bodyguards formed a human wall.

Our eyes met through gunfire and bodies.

For a single second.

Then he looked away and disappeared with Lucinda.

And I stood exposed.

Lucien’s nominal lover—what a perfect hostage target.

Too bad.

I am no fragile vine.

Using cover, I ran toward the staircase—the slaughterhouse I had chosen for them.

…

It ended quickly. My men arrived fast. I suffered only minor injuries.

I didn’t stay for cleanup. I got into an unmarked black car.

Inside, I sent Lucien two final messages on his private encrypted channel.

The first:

*We’re done, Lucien.*

The second:

a heavily encrypted compressed file titled:

*Investigation Report on the True Bloodline of Lucinda Moretti.*

Then I snapped the anonymous SIM card I had used for three years and tossed it through the window into a storm drain.

The car sped forward—

toward my kingdom.