Her words sounded like she was genuinely weeping for his loss, but not a single soul in the room missed the mocking malice dripping from every syllable.
Don Ricci snapped. Fifty years of calculated patience vanished into hysterical fury. Glaring at his trusted lieutenant and the surrounding guards, he shrieked, "Kill her! She butchered my son! Put a bullet in her skull right now!"
Donald, his cover blown and his coup shattered, realized he had backed himself into a fatal corner. With the crowd staring at his treachery, killing her was his only escape. His hand dropped to his hip, drawing his sidearm to aim directly at Avalina's chest.
BANG!
A gunshot tore through the ballroom.
Donald's weapon clattered to the marble floor as a crimson burst exploded from his right forearm. Howling in agony, he clutched the bleeding wound and looked up, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
Standing by the grand entrance, lowering a smoking pistol, was Butler Jess. Behind him filed three dozen armored Facci veterans.
Donald couldn't process it. Butler Jess was the ancient steward bound by blood to serve the Facci bloodline, not an adopted outsider. Donald was Arnold's biological brother—a true Facci. Yet Jess had just put a bullet through his arm without blinking.
Worse, when Donald spun toward Ricci's personal security, his breath hitched. Half of Ricci's elite guard had already drawn their weapons—and were aiming them dead-center at Old Ricci's own head.
Leading them was Richard Ricci's right-hand man, Ronald.
"What are you doing, Ronald?!" Old Ricci wheezed, his face turning an apocalyptic purple. "Are you out of your minds?! You work for me! Shoot her!"
"With all due respect, Don Ricci, we enjoy living," Ronald answered flatly, his gun never wavering. "Miss Facci took complete documentation on our offshore accounts, our smuggling manifests, and every family member we have before she leveled the compound. She also holds the legal transfer deeds to all Ricci territory across Europe. If we stay with you, we die broke in a prison cell. If we side with her, we get to go home."
Old Ricci stood frozen, completely stupefied. The only syllable he could muster was a strangled: "How...?"
"She pulled the main server rack from your underground bunker before detonating the warheads, Sir," Ronald said, offering an apologetic shrug. "She was thorough."
A sharp, crushing pain seized Don Ricci's chest. His cane fell, clattering loudly against the tiles, as his hand clawed violently at his heart. He sank against a marble column, gasping like a stranded fish. In less than twenty minutes, he had lost his eldest son, his syndicate, his men, and his life's work. Fifty years of empire-building, eradicated by a twenty-year-old girl standing in a funeral dress.
Seeing Butler Jess and hearing Ronald's confession, the Facci soldiers who had stood idle and confused under Donald's orders finally snapped to attention. Realizing Miss Facci was very much alive and in total command, they leveled their rifles straight at Donald, Francis, and the three traitorous family elders.
With two clean slices, the chains binding Stella and Benjamin were severed.
Stella stretched her wrists, a ferocious grin spreading across her face. Benjamin chuckled, his chest swelling with fierce pride as he glanced down at the ruined Don Ricci.
"Old Ricci," Benjamin announced so the whole hall could hear, "did you really think Avalina became the Boss by knocking over street thugs? Every head she's taken was a syndicate kingpin."
"And look at you," Stella laughed, her voice ringing off the walls. "Her latest trophy."
Avalina gave Stella and Benjamin a subtle, approving nod before turning her leisurely gaze back to Donald. Her stilettos clicked softly as she strolled over, coming to a halt directly above him.
"Well, well, well," Avalina purred, tilting her head with an icy, razor-thin smile. "Look who decided to attend. The magnificent Uncle Donald. Tell me, darling... whatever shall I do with you?"
Donald collapsed to his knees, trembling so hard his teeth clicked together.
"Avi... please! Listen to me!" Donald begged, sweat and blood soaking through his collar. "I did it for the family! I swear! With you gone, the Riccis would have slaughtered us all! I was playing along! I had to act like this to protect our name—"
Crack.
Before he could finish the sentence, Avalina's knee drove into his solar plexus with sickening force.
Donald folded like a cheap accordion, his face smashing into the marble as he groaned in agony.
"Avi... you..." he wheezed, spitting blood onto the floor.
"Do you take me for an idiot, Donald?" Avalina asked, her voice dripping with venomous amusement. "Did you genuinely believe I made you second-in-command because I trusted you? You thought I didn't know about the shell companies you were opening behind Arnold's back? The kickbacks from the shipping docks?"
She let out a dry, melodic chuckle that made everyone's skin crawl.
"I gave you the title just to see how deep your greed went. And I must say, you didn't disappoint. Shrewd, cowardly, and entirely predictable. But you made the fatal mistake of playing your little games with me. You had to learn how to be a snake, Donald. I was born one."
"Avi... please..." Donald choked out, looking up with tears spilling down his pale cheeks. "I admit it... I made a mistake! Give me one more chance—"
"Goodbye, Uncle Donald. May your soul rot in whatever gutter it lands in."
Avalina drew her sidearm from beneath her coat, pressed the muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The gunshot echoed violently through the hall. Donald went limp, collapsing into a growing crimson pool.
To the underbosses in the crowd who had only known Avalina as a soft-spoken, cultured heiress, the execution hit like a physical punch. She had just executed the late Don's biological brother in broad daylight, surrounded by foreign bosses, without blinking. There was no hesitation. No mercy.
Avalina didn't even look at the corpse. She turned her pitch-black gaze toward Francis and the three trembling Facci elders.
Francis had already wet himself, dropping to his knees and bowing his head to the tiles. "Sister Avi! Please! I'm sorry! I was out of my mind! I'll do anything—I'll surrender my trust fund, I'll scrub the floors, I'll leave Europe! Just spare me!"
"Oh? But I heard you were eager to give me a makeover," Avalina said sweetly, stepping toward him. "Carving my face off? Spitting on my casket? You sounded so passionate just a few minutes ago."
"I was talking nonsense! The grief made me crazy!" Francis cried, clutching at her hem. "Please, spare my life!"
Avalina smiled, a warm, radiant expression that looked utterly terrifying on her bruised, porcelain face.
"Alright. Because I'm a generous sister, I'll give you a chance."
She reached down, picked up Donald's dropped pistol, and offered it to him grip-first.
"Take this gun. Put a bullet into the heads of those three elders who helped Donald sell out our family, and you walk out of this hall alive."
Francis stared at the weapon. Desperation washed over his face. He snatched the gun with trembling hands and turned toward the three elders.
The three old men turned gray, paralyzed with fear, unable to even scream.
Then, Francis's expression twisted into a manic, desperate snarl.
Instead of firing at the elders, he spun back, whipped the barrel toward Avalina's forehead, and yanked the trigger with all his might.
Click.
Click. Click.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Francis froze, his jaw hanging open as the color drained from his face.
Avalina didn't flinch. She hadn't even blinked. Standing right in front of the empty barrel, she looked at him with the tired, pitying amusement of an adult watching a toddler throw a tantrum.
"Did you honestly think I would hand you a loaded weapon, Francis?" she murmured.
Before he could drop it, Avalina grabbed his wrist, twisting it inward until his joints snapped with a sickening pop. Francis screamed as the handgun fell into her waiting palm.
A dozen soldiers raised their rifles to obliterate him, but Avalina raised two fingers, halting them instantly.
She turned toward Butler Jess, who stepped forward with a composed, solemn nod.
"Butler Jess," Avalina said, her voice clear and resonant. "You swore an oath to serve the long-term survival of the Facci family. On his deathbed, I gave Father Arnold my word that I would not lay a hand on his biological son, nor order my men to harm him, unless he proved to be an existential threat."
Francis caught his breath, a faint spark of relief lighting up his eyes. But her next words crushed it into dust.
"You hold a firearm, Jess," Avalina continued, gesturing toward his holster. "If you believe my leadership has harmed the Facci family, you may raise your weapon and put a bullet through my skull right now. But if you believe Francis is a cancer that will destroy everything Arnold built, you will eliminate him. Only one of us walks out of this hall as a Facci."
"Avi, no!" Stella gasped, lunging forward.
"Avalina, don't do this!" Benjamin yelled.
Even Rivaldo's jaw tightened, stepping up beside her, ready to intervene.
Avalina held her hand up, cutting them off without a glance.
Butler Jess stood in silence, looking between the two. The test was brilliant and terrifying. On one hand, Avalina was demanding absolute, undeniable proof of his loyalty to her crown. On the other, she was forcing the family's most revered traditionalist to publicly declare who mattered more: the pathetic biological son who endangered their empire, or the adopted daughter who held Europe in her fist.
Jess didn't hesitate.
Francis had burned syndicate reserves, brought shame to their crest, and just tried to assassinate the only person capable of keeping them alive.
Jess unholstered his pistol, leveled it at Francis's chest, and pulled the trigger.
BANG.
Francis collapsed backward over Richard's coffin, eyes wide, dead before he touched the ground.
Silence fell over the room once more. Avalina didn't spare the body a second look. She turned her attention to the three shivering elders kneeling in the center of the hall.
"Now, gentlemen," Avalina purred, gesturing with her fingers. "I only have room in my ledger for one survivor. But you have to earn it."
Rivaldo signaled two guards, who threw three serrated combat knives onto the floor between them.
"Fight," Avalina instructed, stepping back as Stella, Benjamin, and Rivaldo formed a wall of flesh and iron in front of her. "The last man standing will not be touched by a single bullet or blade in this room. You have my word."
The elders stared at the steel on the floor. Cornered and desperate, the three old men threw themselves forward like rabid beasts. What followed was a vicious, undignified brawl of gasping lungs, torn suits, and frantic slashing.
Within minutes, two of the elders lay motionless in their own blood.
The sole survivor—Elder Marcus—slumped against a banquet table, clutching his ripped throat and stomach. Deep, ragged cuts covered his torso, blood pouring freely onto the white tablecloth. Barely able to stay upright, he looked up at Avalina through blurred vision.
"I... I won..." he wheezed, coughing up blood. "I survived... Call... call a doctor! Get me to a hospital!"
Avalina tilted her head, offering him a look of pure, innocent confusion.
"A hospital?" she asked, her black-painted lips parting into a radiant, mocking smile. "Who said anything about a hospital? I promised that no one in this room would touch you after you won."
She took a slow step backward, smoothing down the pleats of her black gown.
"And I keep my promises. No one here will touch a single hair on your head. You can lie there and bleed out all by yourself."
A collective shiver rippled through the gathered crime bosses. They looked at the dying elder, then back at the composed, beautiful woman who hadn't gotten a single drop of blood on her mourning dress.
She hadn't just defeated her enemies; she had made them tear each other apart with their own greed, all while keeping her hands completely clean.
Avalina turned slowly away from the bodies, resting her cold, terrifying gaze upon the rest of the gathered underworld bosses.