CHAPTER 1:
Chapter One
The First Time I Held a Gun
"The first time I held a gun... it was already too late."
Blood was never supposed to find its way onto her hands.
Yet there it was.
Warm.
Unforgiving.
Slowly slipping between her fingers before falling onto the white marble beneath her feet.
One drop.
Then another.
Each one disappearing into the polished floor like it had always belonged there.
The metallic scent lingered in the air, mixing with expensive perfume, shattered crystal, and burnt gunpowder.
Silence settled over the room.
Not the peaceful kind.
The terrifying silence that follows a gunshot.
Valentina Moretti stood perfectly still.
The pistol remained loose in her trembling hand, though she no longer remembered picking it up.
She couldn't feel its weight anymore.
She couldn't feel anything.
Only the sound of her own heartbeat.
Slow.
Heavy.
Relentless.
A few feet away...
A man lay motionless.
His tailored black suit was stained a deep crimson, the blood spreading beneath him in uneven rivers.
His lifeless eyes stared toward the chandelier above, frozen on something he would never reach.
Valentina couldn't look away.
Death looked different when it happened in front of you.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
It was painfully...
Quiet.
Footsteps thundered through the corridor.
Several armed men burst into the hall.
Their weapons were raised on instinct.
Then they saw her.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The room that had witnessed decades of power struggles suddenly felt too small.
Their eyes shifted from the body...
To the young woman standing in the center of the room.
Her ivory blouse was stained with blood.
A loose strand of dark hair rested against her cheek.
There was no triumph in her expression.
No satisfaction.
Only disbelief.
One of the older men lowered his weapon first.
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"Boss..."
The word echoed through the silence.
Boss.
Valentina closed her eyes.
Only four weeks ago...
That word belonged to someone else.
Four weeks ago...
She still complained about cold coffee.
She argued with her father over breakfast.
She believed evil lived in newspapers and crime documentaries.
She believed her family was different.
She believed she had time.
She had been wrong.
Because time...
Was the first thing blood stole.
----------------------
Four Weeks Earlier
Morning arrived gently over Rome.
Golden sunlight spilled across ancient rooftops, brushing against church domes before slipping into narrow streets where cafés had already begun serving their first cups of espresso.
The city woke slowly, unaware that somewhere beyond its busy heart, fate had already begun writing a tragedy.
Hidden behind centuries-old stone walls stood the Moretti Estate.
Majestic.
Silent.
Untouchable.
To strangers, it was simply the home of one of Italy's most respected families.
To those who knew better...
It was an empire disguised as a residence.
And inside those walls...
Valentina Moretti was about to live the last ordinary morning of her life.
The morning carried an unusual stillness.
Not the kind that felt empty, but the kind that settled gently over a place before anyone realized it would never be the same again.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of Valentina's bedroom, painting soft patterns across the wooden floor. The room was spacious, yet unlike the rest of the mansion, it lacked the cold perfection expected of the Moretti estate.
Books were stacked carelessly on a nearby shelf. A half-finished sketch rested on her desk beside several sharpened pencils, while an old film camera sat near the window, collecting dust after months of neglect.
The room reflected its owner.
Elegant without trying.
Organized only where it mattered.
Alive.
Valentina remained asleep, her face buried beneath the blanket as the morning continued without her.
A gentle knock echoed against the door.
No response.
Another knock.
Still nothing.
The door opened just enough for an elderly woman to peek inside.
Maria smiled knowingly.
She had worked for the Moretti family for nearly thirty years and knew exactly how impossible it was to wake Alessandro Moretti's only daughter.
Crossing the room, she drew the curtains apart.
Golden sunlight immediately flooded the bedroom.
Valentina groaned.
"...Five more minutes."
"You said that ten minutes ago."
"I was younger then."
Maria laughed quietly.
"You'll make your father wait."
One emerald eye slowly opened.
"He can start breakfast without me."
"He refuses to."
Valentina sighed dramatically before throwing an arm across her face.
"That's emotional blackmail."
"No."
Maria folded her hands with practiced innocence.
"That's fatherhood."
A reluctant smile appeared on Valentina's lips.
Perhaps the entire mansion feared Don Alessandro Moretti...
But everyone knew there was only one person capable of making him postpone breakfast.
His daughter.
Nearly twenty minutes later, she finally stepped into the hallway.
Loose strands of dark hair framed her face despite her attempt to tie them neatly. An ivory blouse disappeared beneath a light beige cardigan, while black tailored trousers completed an outfit simple enough to make her mother complain that she dressed like an architect instead of the daughter of one of Italy's wealthiest men.
She didn't mind.
Luxury had never fascinated her.
She preferred comfort.
As she walked through the corridor, morning light spilled through towering windows, illuminating portraits of generations long gone.
Every painted face seemed to carry the same unreadable expression.
Pride.
Authority.
Power.
Sometimes she wondered whether anyone in those portraits had ever wanted an ordinary life.
Or whether being a Moretti meant sacrificing that dream long before birth.
She never asked.
Some questions only echoed inside empty hallways.
Halfway down the staircase, the scent of fresh espresso reached her before the dining room came into view.
Her stomach reminded her that she had skipped dinner the previous night.
Again.
Not intentionally.
She simply lost track of time whenever she buried herself in sketches or books.
It was a habit her father hated.
Another lecture awaited her.
She smiled to herself.
Some traditions were impossible to escape.
The dining room doors stood open.
Warm sunlight poured across the polished table, where breakfast had already been served.
At the head of the table sat Alessandro Moretti.
The newspaper rested neatly folded beside his untouched espresso.
He wasn't reading.
He was waiting.
For her.
Without looking up, he spoke.
"Three minutes."
Valentina paused at the doorway, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"I was beginning to think you carried a stopwatch."
"I don't."
He finally lifted his gaze.
"I simply know exactly when you're late."
She walked toward the table, pulling out the chair beside him.
"And good morning to you too."
A faint smile softened his usually composed expression.
"Good morning, tesoro."
For a moment...
He wasn't Don Alessandro Moretti.
He wasn't the man whose name carried enough influence to silence boardrooms and shake governments.
He was simply a father, waiting for breakfast to begin because his daughter hadn't yet taken her seat.
And neither of them knew...
It would be the last breakfast they would ever share.
