POV: Marcella
The fire inside me hadn't cooled in six years. It had refined itself—contained, sharpened, made clean by time. Not the wild, destructive flames of grief, but a slow, deliberate burn I could control. My hair was pulled into a severe bun, every strand in its place, as precise as my resolve. My hazel eyes—once wide with the naïve wonder of a girl who still believed in safety—now saw the world as a chessboard. Every glance, every word, was a calculated move.
I stood in the boardroom of my father's crumbling empire. The space felt both too big and too small—vast enough for echoes, yet suffocating in the weight of its history. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something older, almost stale. Nicolo, my father's consigliere, and the remaining captains sat around the table. Their faces were a blend of pity, caution, and thinly veiled doubt.
They saw a woman—young, still beautiful—but they missed the truth: beauty was my camouflage. Underneath, I was sharpened steel.
"A merger," I said, my voice steady, clipped, without apology. I let the words hang like a dropped blade. "The De Luca family and the Vales. Our resources combined. Our blood feud ended."
Nicolo's face, creased by decades of loyalty and worry, was the first to react. "This is madness, Marcella," he said softly, his voice carrying that worn, gravelly weight that only age and loss could bring. "After decades of rivalry—"
"After decades of rivalry, we are bleeding out," I cut in, not raising my voice but letting it carry. "The De Lucas are gaining strength. We are the old guard, clinging to tradition while they take the future. If we continue as we are, we die."
"Better to die fighting!" Marco, one of the more hot-blooded captains, shot back, his tone sharp, his eyes accusing. "We defend the family's honor until our last breath."
"And then?" I asked. "We die, and the Vale name is carved into a gravestone no one visits? What honor is there in extinction?"
The words felt like they rang in the walls.
"My father told me once," I went on, "that a good strategist knows when to fight—but a great one knows when to change the game entirely. This is me changing the game. This is me choosing to win. I will not be the last Vale."
Marco leaned forward, bristling. "You call this winning? You're giving yourself to the enemy!"
I met his glare with the cold, still calm I had practiced for years. "I am giving the enemy the illusion of victory. And in exchange, we live. That's the difference between sentiment and strategy."
Nicolo exhaled heavily, his eyes dark with resignation. "And what does De Luca get? Do you think he'll let us keep anything worth having? He'll swallow us whole."
"He gets territory," I said simply. "He gets our assets. Our influence. He gets the spectacle of unity. And yes—" I let the pause linger, forcing their attention to lock on me—"he gets a bride. A Vale bride to put on his arm. He gets the symbol of final victory over our family."
Marco's mouth fell open slightly, his face draining of color. "You?"
"I would marry the devil himself," I said, my voice dropping into a low, final note, "if it meant preserving the Vale name."
The silence that followed was absolute.
I let it stretch. Let them feel the inevitability. Outside the window, the city lights blurred into meaningless points of gold. I knew Lorenzo De Luca. Not personally, but well enough to understand his mind. He played the same game I did—he valued strategy over sentiment. This would be too perfect for him to refuse.
And once he accepted, the trap would close.
My first move as a strategist had been made. And I had won—at least, for now.
---
POV: Lorenzo
Meetings like this were just theater. My captains gathered around the mahogany table, all posturing and waiting for my word. I sat at the head, still as a shadow, scanning the room with the slow precision of someone who had learned long ago that silence unnerved men more than shouting.
The phone rang. Not my public line. A direct one.
"Nicolo," I said when I heard his voice—a voice I hadn't heard in years. Vale's consigliere.
"I'm calling on behalf of the Vale family," he said, careful, almost deferential. "We have a proposition."
"Then get to it," I replied, the words low, unhurried.
"A merger," he said. The pause before the next part was telling. "Proposed by Marcella Vale. To be sealed by a marriage."
For a moment, I said nothing. Marcella Vale—last of her name. I remembered the girl from a distance at one of those dreary public gatherings years ago: black-clad, pale, her grief worn like a crown. I had expected her to fade into the background, a relic of a fallen dynasty. But this was no relic's move. This was audacity.
"A merger?" I repeated, letting my tone flatten into skepticism. "And marriage? A young woman with no seat at the table in her own house, offering me this? Why would I waste my time?"
"It is not a waste, Lorenzo," Nicolo said, some steel returning to his voice. "You'd consolidate your hold over the city. You'd be untouchable. She believes it is the only way to stop the bloodshed."
The logic was sound. And I could see the shape of the advantage—Vale territory folded neatly into mine. The rivalry was erased from the public eye. My enemies are watching me take their last heir as my wife.
"What do your captains think?" I asked.
"They are… divided," Nicolo admitted. "But Marcella is… persuasive. This is her plan, Lorenzo, not mine."
That caught my attention. If true, it meant she was playing a long game of her own.
I decided quickly. "Tell her I accept," I said. The deal was too clean, too ripe to pass up.
When I ended the call, I let the smile come—a slow, deliberate curl of satisfaction. I had just taken my enemy's last living heir and made her mine.
The game had just begun.