The south wing was a fortress.
Glass-proof windows.
Armed guards at every exit.
Steel doors she couldn't open without a retinal scan.
Luciano thought he was protecting her.
But to Amethyst, it felt like a gilded cage.
His orders are law.
His empire, absolute.
She understood it. Respected it.
But she hadn't survived everything — her father, the deal, the pregnancy — just to be hidden away like a porcelain secret.
Not anymore.
So when the report came in — a name, smuggled in on a burner phone, scrawled in blood — she didn't wait for permission.
Sofia Lane.
A name from her past.
Not Luciano's.
It was a message.
And it was meant for her.
—
Sofia had been her roommate at the girls' home in Paris. Sharp as glass. Dangerous in the way only desperate girls could be. They'd promised to protect each other once — before Amethyst escaped, and Sofia didn't.
Until now.
Amethyst walked into the main conference room like fire in silk.
The guards straightened.
Luciano's consigliere, Matteo, blinked. "Mrs. Valeri, your husband said you're to remain—"
"Where's the file?" she asked coolly.
Matteo hesitated. "If Luciano finds out I—"
"He won't," she said, stepping closer. "Unless you want him to know why I had to come down here myself."
He handed her the file.
She flipped through it — photos, surveillance footage, coded messages.
Sofia was alive.
And she was working with one of Luciano's enemies: a rival family in Naples known for trafficking information, not drugs or guns. She'd sold something.
Amethyst's name was in the file. Her name.
And a recent photo of her.
Holding her stomach.
Luciano didn't know yet.
If he saw this, he'd paint the whole city in blood. She had to move first.
She stepped away, fingers trembling only slightly.
"Don't tell him," she told Matteo.
"You're going after her yourself?"
"I'm sending a message," she said, "that I'm not just the girl he married. I'm the woman they should fear."
—
That night, Luciano came to her room late. He smelled like gunpowder and cologne. His suit was rumpled, and his eyes dark.
"You left the south wing," he said.
"Briefly."
"You read the file."
She looked up at him, bare feet on cold marble. "Yes."
"And?"
"She's mine."
He stared at her — then, slowly, he smiled.
Not the cruel one. Not the cold one.
The one he wore when he knew something was inevitable.
"Good," he said. "Then I'll let you handle it."
She blinked. "You're not going to stop me?"
"I've killed men for less," he said, stepping closer. "But not you. I don't put cages around queens."
He kissed her, slow and reverent.
And for the first time, she felt it — not just the love.
But the power.
The next morning, Amethyst sat at the head of the strategy table, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. Guards flanked her. Maps lay before her. Names circled in red ink.
Sofia had made her move.
Now it was Amethyst's turn.