The first explosion shattered the villa's morning calm like a fist through glass.
Valeria Costa jolted awake, her emerald eyes snapping open as the windows rattled in their frames. The pearl earring at her throat swung wildly as she rolled from the bed, bare feet hitting cold marble. Outside, smoke billowed black against the dawn sky, and men's voices rose in panic—sharp, staccato bursts in Italian.
The second blast threw her against the wall.
Plaster rained from the ceiling like snow. Her ears rang, a high whine that drowned out everything except the thunder of boots in the corridor. The door burst open, and Matteo Santoro filled the frame—gray eyes blazing, white shirt torn, blood streaking his left temple.
"Move!" he barked, grabbing her wrist.
She yanked back, instinct flaring. "What's happening?"
"Someone's trying to kill us both." His grip tightened, fingers warm against her pulse. "Now move, or we die here."
They ran through corridors thick with smoke, past shattered portraits and overturned furniture. Guards rushed by, weapons drawn, shouting orders over the chaos. Valeria's bare feet slipped on debris, but Matteo's hand never left her wrist, pulling her forward with ruthless efficiency.
In the war room, Rocco Santoro stood over a corpse—one of their own guards, face down in a pool of blood. His leather jacket was singed, hazel eyes burning with fury.
"Inside job," he growled, nudging the body with his boot. "Bomb was planted in the east wing. Professional work."
Matteo's jaw clenched. "How many?"
"Two dead, three wounded. But they missed the main target." Rocco's eyes flicked to Valeria. "Lucky for her."
"This wasn't random," Matteo said, voice deadly calm. He moved to the wall of monitors, scanning security feeds. "Someone knew our routines. Our blind spots."
Valeria stepped forward, pulse hammering. "You think it was Nico?"
"I think someone in this house is feeding him information." Matteo's fingers traced the scar above his eyebrow. "The question is who."
He turned to her, eyes calculating. "You know Nico's methods. How he operates. I need your insight."
She laughed, bitter and sharp. "Now you want my help?"
"I want you alive." His voice dropped, raw with something she couldn't name. "Which means finding the rat before they finish the job."
Rocco stepped between them. "Matteo, she's—"
"She's what?" Matteo's gray eyes flashed. "The enemy? Right now, she's the only one who understands how Nico thinks."
Valeria's chin lifted. "What do I get in return?"
"Truth," Matteo said simply. "About your mother."
The words hit like a physical blow. Her breath caught, and she felt the weight of Elena's pearl earring against her throat.
"Part of it," she said carefully.
"Part of it." He nodded. "Elena came to me six months before she died. Said she needed protection from Giovanni. That he'd discovered something—something that would destroy both our families."
"You're lying."
"I failed her." His voice cracked, just barely. "I told her I'd handle it quietly. Diplomatically. She died three days later."
Valeria's hands trembled. "What did she discover?"
"That's the truth I'm still searching for." Matteo's eyes held hers. "Help me find our traitor, and I'll tell you everything I know."
Rocco pulled a blood-stained envelope from the dead guard's pocket. "This was on him. Bellini family crest."
Valeria snatched it, fingers steady despite the chaos in her chest. Inside, a single photograph—the villa's layout, with her room marked in red ink. And below it, coordinates.
"Palermo," she whispered.
"What?"
"My mother circled Palermo on a map. Right before she died." Valeria's voice was barely audible. "She said it was where the truth lived."
Matteo's expression darkened. "Nico's been planning this for months."
"Then we give him what he wants," Valeria said, her voice gaining strength. "Me."
"Absolutely not." Matteo's tone was final.
"A fake escape. Let me run—but you follow. See who I contact. Who tries to help me." She stepped closer, green eyes blazing. "Use me as bait."
"It's suicide."
"It's strategy." She lifted her chin. "Unless you're too scared to let your precious princess play?"
Matteo's jaw clenched. Behind him, Rocco shook his head.
"She's right," Matteo said finally. "But we do this my way."
That night, Valeria slipped through the villa's shadows, her heart pounding like thunder. The stolen key turned soundlessly in the garden door, and she stepped into the rain-soaked courtyard. Every muscle coiled with tension, knowing Matteo and Rocco were watching from the darkness.
She made it to the outer wall before the contact appeared—a figure in black, face hidden.
"Valeria Costa?" The voice was rough, unfamiliar.
"Who wants to know?"
"Someone who can get you home." The figure stepped closer. "For a price."
"What price?"
"Information. About Santoro's operations. His vulnerabilities."
Valeria's blood ran cold. This wasn't rescue—it was interrogation.
"I need proof you're legitimate," she said, stalling.
The figure pulled out a photograph—her mother, young and smiling, standing beside a man Valeria didn't recognize. Written on the back: Elena Costa, Palermo, 1985.
"Where did you get this?"
"From someone who knew her. Someone who knows what really happened that night."
Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the trees. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness like deadly fireworks. The contact crumpled, blood blooming across his chest.
"Valeria!" Matteo's voice cut through the chaos.
She dove behind a stone pillar as bullets chewed the ground around her. Her shoulder burned—a graze, but it felt like fire. Through the rain and smoke, she saw Matteo moving like a predator, gun raised, gray eyes deadly calm.
He put three bullets in the nearest attacker, then swept toward her.
"Can you move?" he demanded, pressing his jacket against her wounded shoulder.
"I'm fine," she gasped, but her vision swam.
The contact was dying, blood frothing on his lips. Matteo knelt beside him, voice urgent.
"Who sent you?"
"Nico..." the man wheezed. "But not... not to save her."
"What?"
"Kill her... before she... before she reaches Palermo." His eyes found Valeria's. "She knows... she knows the truth."
He died with a rattling breath.
Valeria stared at the corpse, her mind reeling. Nico didn't want her back—he wanted her dead. Why?
Matteo helped her to her feet, his touch gentle despite the violence surrounding them. "We need to get you inside."
"No." She pulled away, ignoring the pain. "We need to get to Palermo."
"Valeria—"
"My mother died for whatever's there." She clutched the bloodstained envelope, Elena's crest gleaming in the moonlight. "I'm not running from the truth anymore."
Matteo's eyes searched hers, and she saw something shift in their depths—respect, perhaps. Or recognition.
"Then we go together," he said. "But first, we survive tonight."
As they fled through the rain-soaked garden, Valeria's mind raced. The traitor was still out there. Nico wanted her dead. And somewhere in Palermo, the truth about her mother's murder was waiting.