Sunrise barely brushed the Valente estate, casting only the faintest blush across marble pillars and manicured lawns, while the air itself still thrummed with the remnants of last night’s chaos. Alessia Valente prowled the halls with a panther’s grace—heels clicking sharp on the marble, her gaze glacial, every movement honed to lethal precision. The gala had sent a message, loud and clear. But for Alessia? That was just the overture. The real symphony—the one composed of vengeance and power—was only beginning.
In the war room, Lucian and Ronan waited, faces awash in the cold glow of monitors that splashed mafia rumors and Syndicate maneuvers across the walls like a living tapestry of danger. Black Serpent was prowling, the scent of trouble unmistakable, as obvious as a loaded gun on a mah
