After Overhearing, I Took Back My Throne

Chapter 2: The Intruder

Three days.

For three excruciating days, I played the part of the helpless, blind invalid to perfection. I let Sofia guide me by the elbow down the grand marble staircases of the estate, ignoring the faint, sickening scent of Dante’s sandalwood cologne lingering on her skin. I let Dante hold my hand during dinner, enduring his cloying, patronizing tone as he recounted the "burdens" of running the Family in my stead.

Soon, I told myself every time my fingers twitched with the urge to reach for a weapon. Soon.

The Grand Assembly was only four days away. That was when Dante planned to make his move, presenting his falsified evidence of my deteriorating mental and physical health to the Capos. Until then, I needed him to believe he was winning. I spent my days mapping out my restored, albeit blurry, vision. I could see shapes, colors, and movement well enough to navigate my room without stumbling, but I kept the thick medical gauze wrapped tightly over my eyes whenever anyone was near.

It was shortly after midnight on the third day when the illusion of safety shattered.

The storm had rolled in from the Mediterranean a few hours earlier, lashing the Moretti estate with torrential rain and violent claps of thunder. I was sitting in the velvet armchair by the unlit fireplace, listening to the rain batter against the reinforced glass of my balcony doors, when the wail of the perimeter alarms tore through the night.

It wasn't the standard localized alert. It was the master alarm—a high-pitched, relentless screech reserved for a full-scale breach of the compound.

Instantly, the estate erupted into chaos. Even through the heavy mahogany door of my suite, I could hear the thud of heavy combat boots echoing in the corridors. Men were shouting in rapid-fire Italian, the unmistakable metallic clack-clack of assault rifles being chambered cutting through the noise.

Dante had doubled the guard detail since my surgery, claiming it was for my protection. For someone to breach the outer walls and trigger the master alarm, they had to be either a phantom or a suicide squad from a rival syndicate.

I didn't move toward the door. Instead, I stood up smoothly, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug, and reached behind the cushion of the armchair. My fingers closed around the grip of the Beretta 92FS I had relocated there. I clicked the safety off with my thumb.

The hallway outside was a frenzy of activity, but my attention was drawn to a sound much closer.

A heavy, wet thud against the glass of my balcony doors.

The wind howled, rattling the panes, but beneath the storm's fury, I heard the faint scrape of metal against the lock. Someone was trying to pick it.

I raised the gun, holding it steady in a two-handed grip, aiming directly at the center of the balcony doors. Through the blurry haze of my recovering vision, I saw the dark silhouette of a man outside. He was moving sluggishly, his posture hunched.

With a soft click, the lock gave way.

The balcony door swung open, bringing with it a violent gust of wind and the stinging spray of rain. The intruder stumbled into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. He leaned against the glass, panting heavily.

The metallic tang of fresh blood instantly hit my nose, sharp and pungent, overpowering the smell of rain and ozone. He was injured. Badly.

He took a step forward, his boots squelching on the hardwood floor. He didn't turn on a flashlight. He thought he was safe in the dark, slipping into the sanctuary of the blind Donna.

I let him take three more steps into the room before I moved.

Like a shadow detaching itself from the wall, I stepped into his path. Before he could react, I slammed the cold steel muzzle of my Beretta directly against his temple.

The man froze instantly. His breathing hitched, the sound ragged and wet in his chest.

"Move a single muscle, and they'll be mopping your brains off my imported rug," I said, my voice low, cold, and entirely devoid of the frailty I had been faking for the past week.

For a second, the intruder didn't speak. I could hear the rapid, heavy thud of his heart. Then, a low, breathy chuckle escaped his lips, tinged with pain.

"Well," a deep, raspy voice replied in unaccented English. "They said the Moretti Donna was formidable. I didn't think that applied when she was blindfolded."

"I don't need my eyes to pull a trigger," I countered, pressing the barrel harder against his skull.

Up close, the scent of his blood was overwhelming. It was coming from his left side—a gunshot wound, judging by the sharp hiss of breath he took when he shifted his weight. Beneath the blood and rain, he smelled of gun oil, adrenaline, and something distinctly cold, like winter air.

"Who are you?" I demanded. "And why shouldn't I just fire this weapon and let my guards scrape you up?"

"Because if you were going to shoot me, you would have done it the moment I stepped through that door," he said calmly, despite the gun to his head. "And because I know what your husband is planning, Elara."

My finger tightened a fraction of a millimeter on the trigger. He had used my given name. No one outside my inner circle dared to do that.

"Give me one good reason," I whispered, the danger in my tone unmistakable.

"My name is Kael," he said slowly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm an independent contractor. I was hired by the Federal Intelligence Agency to infiltrate Dante's inner circle and retrieve ledgers proving he's selling Moretti territory to the Albanians. But Dante set a trap. He knew I was coming."

The Albanians. My family's oldest, most vicious rivals. If Dante was selling our territory to them, it wasn't just treason—it was an act of war that would destroy the entire syndicate. Dante was willing to burn the Moretti empire to ashes just to rule over the ruins.

"You're a spy," I said, disgust lacing my words.

"I'm a survivor," Kael corrected, coughing slightly. "I have the flash drive with the ledgers. But Dante's men clipped me on the way out. I needed a place to hide where they wouldn't dare search."

"My bedroom."

"The sanctuary of the blind, grieving Queen. Yes." He let out a strained breath. "I didn't expect the Queen to be waiting in the dark with a loaded Beretta."

Through the blurry edges of my vision, I studied him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black tactical gear that clung to his muscular frame. His face was a blur of sharp angles and shadows, but his presence was undeniable—a raw, dangerous energy that rivaled my own.

He wasn't just a spy. He was an apex predator, much like myself. And right now, he was trapped in a cage with a wounded lioness.

"You have something I want," I said, my mind racing. The flash drive. The undeniable, concrete proof of Dante's treason. It was exactly what I needed to execute Dante in front of the Grand Assembly without causing a civil war within the Family.

"And you have the only way out of this estate," Kael replied. "We can help each other, Donna."

Before I could respond, a new sound cut through the tension.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps thundered down the hallway, heading straight for the master suite. The shouting outside grew louder, more frantic.

"Check the east wing!" a familiar voice roared. Dante. He sounded furious, panicked. "He couldn't have made it past the courtyard! Find him!"

The footsteps stopped right outside my bedroom door.

Kael tensed beneath my gun, his muscles coiling like a spring. He knew, just as well as I did, that if Dante walked through that door and found a bleeding federal agent in my room, he would kill us both and claim I was a traitor. It would be the perfect excuse to seize power immediately.

"He's coming in," Kael whispered, his voice barely a breath against the ambient noise of the storm.

"I know," I replied softly.

The heavy brass doorknob of my bedroom slowly began to turn.