Chapter 24

The Daughter of the Knife

The sound of glass shattering echoed against the wall. Wine poured down the marble like blood from a wound.

I stood there in my bedroom, gasping for breath, my chest rising and falling in quick bursts. The curtains danced in the chilly night breeze, almost mocking me.

Everything I thought I knew. Everything I worked hard to build. It was all built on a lie. I wasn’t Elena Marco’s daughter. I was Sebastian Moretti’s.

And now, that very man is haunting me.

My hands shook as I clung to the edge of the dresser. My reflection looked back at me,pale, hollow-eyed, and tense.

Whose eyes are those? Hers? His? Or are they mine?

Damian stood silently at the door.

He hadn’t uttered a single word since the video. He didn’t flinch when I hurled the glass or when I screamed at the walls.

Now, he stepped inside.

“You don’t have to be him.”

I didn’t turn around. But deep down, I know I am. It’s in my blood.

“Blood isn’t destiny.”

I whirled around, my eyes blazing. Isn’t it? Look at everything I’ve done, the lies, the killings, the power struggles! Tell me what’s not in my fucking blood! Huh?

You tell me, Damian!

In just three strides, he was at my side.

“It’s not the blood that defines you, Claire. It’s what you do with it.”

By morning, the entire estate felt icy.

Nico had ramped up security outside. Vera was sending in black ops to trace Sebastian’s path through Madrid.

The council had reluctantly given partial authority to go after him.

“He’s too valuable to too many people,” Vera warned. “Ex-CIA. Ex-Russian connections. He’s not just a threat; he’s a legacy.”

I stood in the war room, dressed in ash-gray, my mother’s pendant hanging around my neck a lie I wore like armor.

We weren’t going to wait for him to strike again. We were going to hunt him down.

“Where do we start?” Nico asked.

I pointed to the one spot on the map that didn’t have a blinking signal: Marseille.

He’d been there last, and he left a message.

Damian raised an eyebrow. “The burned cathedral?”

I nodded. It wasn’t just a symbol.

Vera crossed her arms. “What does it mean?”

My eyes sharpened. It was his sanctuary. The place where he trained. Where he was forged.

Years ago, the cathedral had burned down. The locals called it cursed.

As I walked through the charred archways, memories that weren’t mine clawed at my mind.

I could sense him here. I could smell him in the ashes and stones. This was where he bled for my mother. Where he became a knife.

Damian walked beside me, silent, his hands always close to his weapon. Together, we descended into the basement crypt.

There it was, carved right into the stone wall, newly etched.

“You carry my face. But not my fire.” - S.

I couldn't take my eyes off it.

Then I spotted something else,a small gold coin set into the wall.

Damian managed to pry it free.

“It’s not money,” he said quietly. “It’s a tracker.”

I picked it up and flipped it over. On the back, just one engraving:

CM.

He wants me to find him. He’s definitely trying to mess with me.

Damian’s jaw clenched. “He’s luring you in.”

Well, he’s going to regret that.

Later that night, I was at the back of the estate when the lights flickered. For thirty seconds, every security camera was out.

When they came back on, he was gone again. But he’d left something behind.

In my room. On my pillow. A page from my childhood diary, the edges burned.

And in red ink beneath one entry, it read:

“You never were hers.”

Hours later, I found myself alone in the garden my mother adored.

The wind rustled through the hedges.

The moon watched silently. Damian walked over slowly, taking in my curled-up figure in the chair.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whispered.

He knelt down beside me.

“You’re Claire. You’re ruthless, brilliant, and brave. You’re a storm in silk. No one, not Elena or Sebastian,gets to define that.”

Tears welled up in my eyes but didn’t spill over. “Do you still believe in me?” I asked, my voice shaky.

He didn’t skip a beat. “With my life.”

Then he added gently, “But if you want to take down your father, you’ll have to stop mourning the mother who lied to you.”

I swallowed hard and stood up.

When I turned back toward the house, I felt a shift within me.

At dawn, the council got my message. I was invoking a blood rule.

An old code that allows the direct descendant of any mafia founder to challenge their predecessors, no matter how feared, protected, or powerful they are.

It hadn’t been used in 32 years, but now it was on.

I was going to challenge my father, and only one of us would walk away.

Meanwhile, deep down in a vault beneath the streets of Istanbul, Sebastian watched the council broadcast.

A smile crept across his face.

“Finally,” he murmured. “My daughter is awake.”

Then he turned to the man chained behind him, another council agent.

“You see?” he said, pulling a knife from his boot. “She’s mine, after all.”