Three Years a Fool, One Night the Godmother

Watching Him Strut Into His Own Funeral

Elena's POV

The Sicilian castle blazed with light through every arched window. I watched it from the back of the armored Maybach, the live feed playing on the tablet in my gloved hand.

Matteo was strutting through the main hall like a crowned king. Serafina hung off his arm, her fake diamonds catching the chandelier light. She was wearing a gown she had stolen from my family's vault—the one I had planted there for her to find.

The cameras flashed. The reporters shouted. And every single boss in that room watched them with eyes that had already pronounced a death sentence.

I zoomed in on Matteo's face. He was grinning. Arrogant. Stupid. The same grin he wore when he ordered my death in Griko, thinking I couldn't understand a single word.

"He's about to start his speech, Donna Elena."

My lieutenant's voice crackled through the earpiece. I didn't answer. I just watched.

Matteo climbed the stage. He adjusted his cufflinks—the same black-gold ones I had fastened for him on the night he told Serafina to kill me after I gave birth. The irony burned in my chest like acid.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Matteo's voice boomed through the hall's speakers, "tonight, the Moretti family will redefine the European underground order!"

I laughed.

Actually laughed out loud.

Redefine what? He couldn't even redefine a grocery list without my help. Every tactical win he had ever claimed was mine. Every territory he had conquered had been handed to him on a silver platter by the woman he called a "stupid breeding tool."

The bosses in the hall didn't clap. They just stared. Cold. Calculating. They knew something was coming. They just didn't know what.

"Donna Elena." Valerio's voice was soft beside me. "It's time."

I looked at him. The man who had waited seven years. The man who had never once asked me to be anything less than what I was.

He was wearing a black custom suit, a single gold pin on his lapel—the De Santis crest. A black eagle clutching a crown of rubies. My family's crest.

"Ready, my queen?" he asked.

I reached out and touched his face. Just for a second. Just to remind myself that this was real. That I wasn't the same woman who had been bleeding in a hospital bed while Matteo stitched up his mistress's paper cut.

"I've been ready for seven years."

Valerio smiled. It was a dangerous smile. The kind of smile that made men like Matteo wet their pants.

He stepped out of the car first. The moment his foot hit the pavement, the entire perimeter went silent.

Valerio Castiglione. The Dark Lord of the Mediterranean. The man whose fleet could blockade an entire country before breakfast.

He walked around to my door and opened it.

The twelve cannon salutes began to fire.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Each blast shook the ground. The castle windows rattled. The reporters turned, their cameras swinging toward the entrance.

I stepped out.

The world went still.

I was wearing black. Black silk. Black gold thread. Black tactical Kevlar woven into the fabric of my gown. The hem was heavy with lead shot. The bodice was reinforced with ballistic panels. Every inch of me was a weapon.

Behind me, the De Santis Royal Guard fell into formation. One hundred and twenty men in black-gold armor. Their boots hit the ground in perfect synchronization. The sound was like a heartbeat. Like war drums.

Valerio took my hand. We walked toward the entrance.

The guards parted before us like water before a blade.

The castle doors groaned open.

I stepped into the light.

The hall fell silent.

Dead silent.

Matteo was still standing on the stage, his mouth half-open, his hand frozen mid-gesture. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost.

Serafina gripped his arm, her face twisting. "What is she doing here?"

I didn't look at her. I didn't look at either of them.

I walked forward.

My heels clicked against the marble floor. Each step was a declaration. Each step was a death sentence.

The bosses rose from their seats.

One by one.

Like dominoes falling in reverse.

First the Calabrian families. Then the Sicilians. Then the Neapolitans. Even the Americans stood.

They bowed their heads.

"Donna Elena De Santis."

The name rippled through the crowd like a shockwave. Like thunder rolling across the sea.

Matteo's face went from white to gray. His hand dropped to his side. His jaw hung loose.

I stopped at the foot of the stage.

The stage he had been standing on. The stage he thought was his throne.

I looked up at him. For the first time in seven years, I looked at him with nothing. No love. No hate. No fear. Just the cold, empty gaze of a predator who had already won.

"Matteo."

My voice was calm. Quiet. It carried through the hall like a blade.

"Did you think you could erase my family?"

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His lips moved. No sound.

Serafina started screaming something. Something about trespassing. Something about security. I didn't hear a single word. She was noise. Less than noise.

The Royal Guard fanned out behind me. One hundred and twenty black-gold warriors. The real power in this room.

Valerio stepped up beside me. He didn't touch me. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough.

"Donna Elena De Santis," one of the Commission elders announced, his voice trembling with reverence, "rightful heir of the De Santis bloodline. Sovereign of the Mediterranean Armada. We welcome you to the summit."

I climbed the steps.

One by one.

Each step took me higher. Each step took Matteo lower.

I reached the top. I turned to face the assembly.

The entire European underworld was watching me.

I smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

"The trial begins now."

The room erupted.

Not in chaos. In recognition.

The bosses sat back down, their eyes fixed on me. The cameras rolled. The world watched.

I turned to Matteo. He was shaking. His hands were trembling. His eyes were wet.

"Please," he whispered. Just for me. Just for that one second. "Elena, please."

I looked at him.

Seven years of sacrifice. Seven years of silence. Seven years of watching him take credit for my work, my brilliance, my blood.

And now he was begging.

I leaned in close. Close enough that only he could hear.

"I understood every word you said in Griko, Matteo. Every single one."

His face crumbled.

"You thought I was a dead language to bury me. But you forgot—it's the language of queens."

I straightened my gown. I turned my back on him.

And I walked to the center of the stage, where the microphone waited.

The summit was mine.

The underworld was mine.

And Matteo Moretti was already dead. He just didn't know it yet.