Chapter 28

A throne carved from silence.

The summit was set in a beautifully restored manor tucked away in the Austrian Alps. It looked pristine, but there was nothing about it that felt safe.

Outside, snow blanketed the pine-covered hills. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of polished wood, high-end perfume, and secrets just waiting to spill.

As I walked into the opulent chamber, Damian was by my side, while Vera and Nico followed closely behind. I was dressed in a sleek black pantsuit with silver buttons, my dark braid pulled tightly at the nape of my neck, like a challenge just waiting to be met.

Every gaze in the room landed on me, accompanied by whispers.

"She’s the one who spared Moretti."

"She sits on Durate’s ashes."

"Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t bow."

At the far end of the room, an oval table was surrounded by representatives from the remaining powerful families: Romanov, Tanaka, Yusef, and LaRue. The Marco seat stood empty, a ghost at this gathering.

And at the head of the room, beneath a grand cathedral window, was a man I’d never seen in person.

But I knew exactly who he was.

The watcher.

Dressed in a black suit with a crisp collar, his angular face was oddly ageless. His pale blue eyes seemed to absorb every flicker, every movement around him.

He didn’t rise as I approached. He didn’t say a word.

He simply smiled faintly, almost politely, like a wolf pretending it had never tasted flesh.

“Welcome,” said an older man with an Eastern European accent, clearly the elder Yusef. “We’re here to discuss the redistribution of Marco's contract and containment after Elena’s fall.”

“And what about the blood tax Moretti collected?” added Madame LaRue. “You’ve ended it, which leaves a power vacuum.”

I didn’t sit down. Not yet.

You think this is about contracts? I asked quietly.

The room fell silent.

No. This is about fear. You all saw what happened under the blood rule. I survived Sebastian, and I didn’t burn everything to the ground.

“Yet,” Vera whispered under her breath.

I came here to make one thing clear. I continued. There is no power vacuum. I am the heir to both bloodlines, and I won’t ask for permission to lead.

Damian stepped forward, placing a scroll on the table. It was filled with signatures from fifteen minor syndicates that had already pledged loyalty to Durate.

The message was clear: The empire lives.

“And what about retribution?” asked a tall, thin man from the Romanov line. “You’ve made enemies, Claire. One doesn’t kill to ascend without debts to pay.”

Finally, I turned to the watcher.

Let’s stop pretending you’re not the one pulling the strings here.

Gasps rippled through the room.

He smiled faintly and stood, folding his hands behind his back.

“You’re sharp,” he said, his voice smooth and distinctly British, with an air of something older, something colder.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“An old friend of your mother’s.”

I stiffened. You’re lying.

“Not entirely. I knew Maria Duarte before she was the Queen of the South. I knew her before she ever met Moretti. And I know exactly how she died.”

I took a step closer. You’ve been watching me. Sending warnings. Threats.

“Tests,” he corrected. “You passed.”

“Why?”

He studied me for a moment. “Unlike Elena, you know how to bleed without becoming hollow. And unlike your mother, you know how to survive without becoming cruel.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you want?”

“Not power,” he said simply. “Control, order. I represent an older alliance, one buried beneath centuries of blood. You think this game started with Moretti? With The Marco?”

He leaned in closer. “You’re playing on the ashes of the empire that once ruled the world.”

I didn’t respond.

“Your mother tried to resurrect it. She failed. Elena tried to destroy it. She failed. But you, you might rebuild it.”

He pulled out a file from his coat and slid it across the table.

I opened it, photos, documents, bloodline records. All pointing back to one name.

The Red Court.

I looked up. My mother had warned me about this. She called it a cult.

“She called it what she feared,” he replied. “Because it knew how to tame devils. And how to kill them.”

Later, after the summit wrapped up, I found myself alone on the balcony, the wind whipping around my coat.

Damian joined me. “That man, what is he?”

I exhaled. “Not what. Who. He’s the king that Maria tried to dethrone. He leads the Red Court.”

“And he wants you to join?”

I glanced down at the folder in my hand. “I don’t think it’s a choice.”

Back at the estate that night, I opened the file again. Each word felt like acid on my tongue.

The Red Court wasn’t just some hidden network. It was a centuries-old council of bloodlines, formed to manipulate the world from the shadows through war and control.

Moretti and Duarte were just branches on a tree rooted in something much older.

The court controlled currency, alliances, even royal bloodlines. Elena tried to destroy it but realized they wouldn’t let a female heir have full control.

Maria had tried to expose them. Both women died trying.

I stared at the last photo,one of my mother, young and bright-eyed, standing next to a much younger version of the watcher.

They were smiling.

But Maria’s hand was gripping a dagger behind her back.

That night, I made my way to the private cellar beneath the estate.

There, behind the oldest wine rack, I found a hidden wall panel. Nico had stumbled upon it while expanding surveillance.

Inside was a locked steel box, marked with Duarte’s sigil.

I entered my blood code, and the box hissed open.

Inside lay a single handwritten letter.

“If you’re reading this, it means you’ve found him.

Do not trust the man with blue eyes and a silver ring.

He might offer you the world. He will offer you power.

He’ll tell you the Red Court can be tamed.

It cannot. It must be destroyed.

Maria.”

I closed my eyes and then burned the letter.

The next morning, the watcher sent me a gift, an antique crown, tarnished with time but still sharp, accompanied by a note.

“A queen must choose to reign in chains or burn the kingdom.”

The board is yours.