Crown Of The Underworld

The Last Will The moment I crossed the gates, I knew one thing. I was no longer a daughter returning home but an intruder entering enemy territory. Two men in black suits straightened as I approached, one spoke into the microphone hidden beneath his collar. "She's here." Not Miss De Luca, not Valentina. Just she's here. As if I weren't a person, only a problem. I tightened my grip around my handbag. Inside was a single cream-colored envelope. Yesterday morning, the family's lawyer had delivered it along with four words that had followed me all night. Your father is dead. I hadn't cried. Not because I was strong but because I didn't know how to mourn a man who had stopped being my father twenty years ago. The front doors swung open before I reached them. Warm air spilled outside, carrying the rich scent of cigar smoke, polished oak, and old whiskey. The smell hit me harder than I expected. For one impossible second, I was six again, hidden beneath the grand staircase while my parents argued somewhere above me. My mother had found me there but my father never did. The memory vanished as quickly as it came. An older gentleman stood inside waiting for me. His silver hair was neatly combed, his charcoal suit impeccably tailored, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. "Miss De Luca." He inclined his head politely. "I'm Vittorio Conti, the family's attorney." "I remember." He visited my apartment yesterday and ignored me when I told him I wanted nothing from Alessandro De Luca. "Thank you for coming." "I almost didn't." Something flickered across his face. "Everyone is waiting." I followed him through the entrance hall. Every step echoed across the polished marble. Portraits lined the walls, watching silently from elaborate gold frames. Power. Judgment. Legacy. The three things the De Luca name had always stood for, and I've spent twenty years learning to live without them. We stopped before two enormous wooden doors. Muted voices drifted from the other side. Mr. Conti pushed them open. Silence swallowed the room. More than thirty people turned toward me at once. Men in tailored black suits. Women dressed in mourning. Armed guards standing perfectly still against the walls. Their eyes followed me, some were curious and most resentful. I felt every stare settle across my shoulders, heavy and cold. My attention drifted toward the men gathered near the fireplace. There were five of them. Five men dressed in black. Five men carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people accustomed to giving orders instead of taking them. One man stood slightly apart. Tall and powerfully built, he watched me with the kind of cold contempt that needed no words. His expression had already decided I didn't belong. Mr. Conti lowered his voice. "Marco Romano. The eldest." Of course, he was. He looked exactly like a man who had already spent years imagining himself on the throne. Mr. Conti cleared his throat. "Gentlemen. This is Miss Valentina De Luca." Marco let out a quiet, derisive laugh. His gaze moved slowly over me like he was inspecting something worthless. "So this is the daughter." His tone made the word sound like an accusation. "The great Alessandro De Luca threw away an empire for... ” I met his gaze and held it. "I didn't come here for your approval." A few eyebrows lifted around the room. Marco smiled. "You've got a tongue." "And you've got terrible manners." Several people shifted awkwardly. Someone chuckled and Marco's smile vanished. "Enough." A single word shattered the tension. It wasn't loud, yet it silenced the room. Even Marco, who moments earlier had looked ready to tear me apart, took an unwilling step back. I turned toward the sound. A man stood beside the rain-streaked window. Tall and broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in black. A faint scar traced his jaw, and his gray eyes met mine with a calm that sent a chill down my spine. Nobody questioned him. Nobody interrupted him. In a room full of men who carried guns, he was the only one who didn't need one to command attention. Mr. Conti spoke quietly. "Lorenzo Moretti. The late Don's underboss." Lorenzo gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. No smile softened his features, and no words followed. Yet somehow, it felt more sincere than anything else I'd encountered since stepping into the estate. Mr. Conti moved to the head of the table. "The family had gathered. It is time." The rain tapped softly against the windows as he unfolded a thick document. "My name is Vittorio Conti. Today we are here to read the final will and testament of Don Alessandro De Luca." Expectation settled over the room like a heavy fog. Marco's expression brimmed with confidence, while the others exchanged quiet glances, each believing the next few moments would crown one of them as the new Don. Mr. Conti began reading. "To Marco Romano..." Marco lifted his chin. "...the vineyard in Tuscany." His confidence wavered. "To Enzo Ricci..." A chair scraped sharply against marble. "...the shipping docks." "To Gabriel Moretti..." The easy smile disappeared from one of the brothers. "...the properties in Milan." "To Stefano Bellini..." Silence. "...the financial holdings." "To Adrian De Santis..." Adrian finally looked up. "...the estate in Lake Como." Confused whispers spread across the room. Each son had received an inheritance. But not the one they wanted. Mr. Conti looked up. His eyes found mine. "And finally..." No one moved. "I leave the leadership of the De Luca Empire..." Silence stretched like a wire about to break. "...to my only daughter..." Marco frowned. A glass slipped from someone's hand and shattered against the marble floor. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. Mr. Conti looked directly at me. "...Valentina De Luca." My lungs refused to work. My fingers dug into the leather strap of my handbag until my knuckles turned white. The cold marble beneath my feet seemed to tilt. Every head turned toward me. Only the silent promise that I wouldn't leave this room alive. Marco walked toward me with deliberate calm. His steps measured against the marble floor. He stopped close enough for me to smell whiskey in his breath. Then he smiled. It wasn't the smile of a defeated man. It was the smile of someone who had already imagined my funeral. "Congratulations, Valentina." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear. "Soak in t He applauded and enjoy your first day as Don.” His smile widened. "Tomorrow, they'll be scraping your blood off this floor.”