RED THREADS AND TRIGGERS
The De Luca estate slept above, but midnight echoed through its bones like a whispered omen. Beneath layers of stone and steel, hidden behind biometric locks and silence, a vault hissed open to reveal a world not made for peace—but for power.
Inside Adriano’s private armory, rows of gleaming firearms stood on matte-black walls like weapons in a museum of violence. Antique pistols with ivory handles shared space with sniper rifles tuned for silent kills. Every blade, every gun, every inch of steel had been curated, sharpened, loved. The air smelled of gun oil, leather, and cold authority.
Valentina stepped inside slowly, her heels clicking against polished obsidian. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Her gaze moved across weapons that told stories in silence.
Adriano’s voice came from behind her, quiet but certain. “This is where my real history is kept. Not in portraits or bank ledgers. Here.”
She turned slightly, watching as he flipped a hidden switch. A section of the wall shifted, revealing a display case lined with velvet and lit from within. The gleam of silver and ruby caught her eye.
“A bit dramatic,” she remarked, folding her arms.
“Drama is the language of fear,” he said as he approached the case. “And my enemies are fluent.”
She walked closer, pausing before a row of engraved handguns. Her fingers hovered above the glass but didn’t touch.
“Is this a warning?” she asked softly.
“It’s an introduction,” he replied. “If you’re going to walk beside me, you should know what I walk with.”
Adriano opened the case and pulled out a silver pistol, sleek and impossibly elegant. Ruby inlays glinted like drops of blood under the light.
“This is yours now,” he said, offering it. “Custom grip. Balanced for speed.”
She raised a brow. “Guns aren’t exactly my accessory of choice.”
His eyes didn’t waver. “Neither was a crown, once.”
Valentina took the pistol. It surprised her how naturally it fit her palm—solid, cold, unshakable.
“You don’t flinch,” he observed.
“I don’t flinch from steel,” she replied. “People are messier.”
He studied her then, the way a scientist might observe a volatile substance—fascinated and wary.
“You’re not a guest anymore, Valentina,” he murmured. “You’re a variable.”
Beneath the armory, a second layer opened—an underground range, reinforced with steel and silence. The walls were lined with human-shaped targets.
Valentina stood in the center, pistol raised. Adriano moved behind her, his presence like gravity.
“Feet shoulder-width,” he instructed, guiding her arms with light touches. “Breathe in. Hold. Squeeze—don’t yank.”
She arched a brow. “I know how to shoot, Adriano.”
“Then show me.”
She fired.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Every bullet hit center mass.
He watched her with approval. “Impressive. Most people hesitate the first time.”
“I’m not most people,” she said, lowering the gun.
“Clearly.”
He stepped in close, his breath brushing her ear as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind it. “You’ve killed before.”
She tensed—barely.
“No,” she said quietly. “But I’ve wanted to.”
He smiled, not cruelly, but like someone recognizing a kindred darkness. “That’s honesty. Keep it. Most people hide behind civility. You wear your fire like silk.”
“And you bury yours in basements.”
Hours later, Valentina wandered through the house, mind spinning. The cold tile of the kitchen grounded her—until she realized she wasn’t alone.
Gio leaned on the marble island, swirling a drink in his glass. His smile was crooked, but not friendly.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he said. “Or does guilt keep you awake, duchess?”
She didn’t break stride. “If I needed lullabies, I’d have stayed in Havana.”
“You don’t belong here,” he said, tone sharpening. “None of us like it. A street girl playing princess, wrapped in silk and pretending she knows how this world spins.”
“I don’t pretend,” she said coolly. “I learn. Fast.”
He pushed off the counter and walked toward her, glass swinging at his side. “You think he sees you? He’ll use you. Then burn you. That’s how this ends.”
Valentina’s gaze didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll burn brighter.”
He grabbed for her wrist, rough and sudden. In a blur, she snatched a bottle from the counter and shattered it against the marble. She held the jagged glass between them, gleaming with threat.
“Touch me again,” she said low and lethal, “and I’ll make you bleed prettier than that wine you’re sipping.”
A sharp cut already bloomed on his hand.
From the shadows, a deeper voice cut through the tension.
“Enough.”
Adriano stepped into view, his presence enough to silence the room.
“Gio,” he said calmly, “speak out of turn again and I’ll remove your tongue myself.”
Gio backed away, clutching his bleeding hand. He muttered something under his breath as he left.
Valentina didn’t turn to Adriano. “He had it coming.”
“You’re not wrong,” Adriano said. “I just didn’t expect you to handle it so... beautifully.”
“I don’t wait for knights in armor.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “Good. There are no knights in this world. Only wolves.”
The next morning, sunlight bled through the high windows of Adriano’s study. He stood behind his desk, waiting. When Valentina entered, her dress still the one from yesterday, he didn’t comment. He simply slid a folder across the polished wood.
“I need you to see this.”
She opened it. Inside were grainy surveillance images, offshore accounts, dossiers, and one photo that made her breath falter. Her hand hovered above the image as her expression shifted.
“Who is this?” she asked, forcing composure into her voice.
Adriano’s gaze didn’t leave her. “Someone I suspect is planning a hit. Possibly connected to your past.”
Her fingers trembled. She stared at the photo—a man, partially obscured. A fragment of memory sparked: Havana. Fire. Screams. Blood.
She closed the folder slowly. “No,” she said. “I don’t recognize him.”
He watched her closely. “I think this man knows something about your past, Valentina.”
Her chest felt tight. She set the folder down, her fingers now steady with effort.
“You’re involving me in your war,” she said, eyes narrowed.
“You involved yourself the moment you stepped into that gala,” he replied. “I’m giving you the tools to survive it.”
“What do you want from me?”
Adriano leaned forward. “Be my eyes. My silence. My shadow.”
“And if I refuse?”
His smile was cold. “Then I stop protecting you from the things I already know.”
She stared at him, fury and fear dancing behind her lashes. “You don’t know who I am.”
“Not yet,” he said, stepping closer, his voice like silk over a dagger. “But I will.”
The air between them thickened, tension pulling taut.
Then a phone buzzed on the desk.
Adriano picked it up. His jaw locked.
“They found Gio,” he said.
Valentina blinked. “Found him? What do you mean—?”
“He’s dead,” Adriano answered, voice low and lethal. “Execution-style. There was a note.”
He turned the phone toward her.
On the screen, a photo of Gio’s lifeless body slumped against a wall. Blood smeared the tiles. A single paper was pinned to his chest.
She leaned forward and read aloud.
“‘Betrayal.’”
Her voice faltered. The word clung to the air like smoke.
Adriano’s eyes darkened. “Someone knows. And they’re sending a message.”
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was a warning.
It was war.