CHAPTER 1
THE KING OF BLOOD
Rome, Italy.
The man kneeling on the marble floor knew he was going to die.
He had known it the moment the elevator doors opened.
He had known it when he saw the two armed guards standing at the entrance to the study.
And he had known it when Dante Valentino looked up from the documents on his desk.
There was no anger in Dante's expression.
That was what terrified him most.
Anger could be survived.
Anger was unpredictable, temporary, sometimes even merciful.
Dante's calm was something else entirely.
It was the silence before a bullet entered the skull.
“Tell me again,” Dante said.
His voice was low, almost bored.
The man on the floor swallowed.
“Don Valentino, I swear I didn't—”
“That's not what I asked.”
The study was enormous, lined with dark wooden shelves and expensive paintings inherited from generations of Valentino men. A fire burned in the marble fireplace, but the room remained cold.
Dante sat behind a black walnut desk.
He wore a charcoal suit, a white shirt, and a watch that cost more than most people earned in a decade. His dark hair was combed neatly away from his face.
He looked like a respectable businessman.
A powerful businessman.
A man who might donate to children's hospitals and shake hands with ministers.
Nobody looking at him would immediately guess how many people had died because of his decisions.
Nobody except the people who worked for him.
And the man kneeling before him knew better than most.
“I didn't give the information to the Moretti family,” the man whispered.
Dante leaned back in his chair.
“Interesting.”
“It's the truth.”
“Then why did three of my men walk into an ambush last night?”
The man opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Dante picked up a silver lighter from his desk and turned it slowly between his fingers.
“Three men,” he repeated. “One of them had a wife. Another had a six-year-old daughter. The third had worked for my father for twenty years.”
His eyes settled on the kneeling man.
“Do you know what bothers me?”
The man shook his head.
“Not that they died.”
The words were delivered without emotion.
“What bothers me is that someone thought they could use my men as bait and continue breathing afterward.”
“Dante.”
The voice came from the corner of the room.
Luca Romano stood beside the window, his arms folded across his chest. He was Dante's oldest friend and the only man in the room who could address him by his first name without permission.
“Enough,” Luca said quietly. “He's already confessed.”
The kneeling man turned toward him.
“Luca, please—”
Dante closed the lighter.
Click.
The sound seemed to fill the entire room.
“Take him outside.”
Two guards stepped forward.
The man began to struggle.
“No! Don Valentino, please! I have a family! I have children!”
Dante didn't look at him.
“Then you should have thought of them before you sold mine.”
The guards dragged the man away.
His cries echoed down the corridor.
A door slammed.
Silence returned.
Luca walked toward the desk.
“You could have questioned him longer.”
“I already know who paid him.”
“Who?”
Dante reached for a folder.
“The Moretti family.”
Luca's expression changed.
“That's impossible.”
“Is it?”
“The Morettis have been dead for fifteen years.”
“Families don't die because one man does.”
Dante opened the folder.
Inside were photographs, bank records, and a single old newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
MORETTI FAMILY m******e LEAVES ONE SURVIVOR.
Beneath the headline was a photograph of a burning villa.
Luca picked up the clipping.
“Where did you get this?”
“From a man who died three hours ago.”
“That's encouraging.”
Dante ignored him.
His finger rested on a photograph attached to the file.
A young woman stood outside a small orphanage. She had long brown hair, a pale complexion, and soft eyes. She wore a simple cream-colored dress and held a stack of books against her chest.
She was smiling at a little girl beside her.
Her name was written beneath the picture.
ARIA MORETTI.
Luca stared at it.
“She's alive?”
“Apparently.”
“Dante, the Moretti bloodline was supposed to be finished.”
“Apparently,” Dante repeated, “someone forgot to tell her.”
He turned another page.
Aria Moretti.
Twenty-four years old.
Orphaned at the age of nine.
Raised in a Catholic orphanage outside Florence.
No known surviving relatives.
No criminal record.
No political connections.
No known involvement in the Mafia.
And yet, three days earlier, an anonymous message had been delivered to Dante's private residence.
THE LAST MORETTI IS ALIVE.
SHE WILL BE YOUR WIFE.
AND WHEN SHE BEARS YOUR CHILD, THE VALENTINO EMPIRE WILL FALL.
Dante had initially assumed it was a threat.
Now he wasn't so sure.
“Who sent the message?” Luca asked.
