Chapter 65: Roses for the Widowmaker

POV: Valentina

The silence of the royal wing was unnerving, carved not merely from stillness, but from centuries of velvet-draped secrets. The air held its breath, thick with ghosts that never left, only lingered in the corners, watching. The walls of the De Luca estate were older than most of its inhabitants—stitched with betrayals, silenced oaths, and the kind of loyalty that left bruises.

Valentina stood at the tall arched window, her silhouette etched in the moonlight like a specter painted in pale silver. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, but it didn’t quite look like her—not anymore. The version staring back at her looked colder. Heavier. As though grief had forged a crown where innocence once lived.

Sleep had eluded her again. For hours she’d stood there, unmoving, her silk nightgown brushing against her ankles like fog. Her branded palm throbbed faintly beneath the glove, a reminder that her lineage was no longer a question—it was a sentence.

The moon hung low and wide over the estate courtyard, watching her with quiet judgment. Its glow poured across the marble floor like spilled milk, illuminating the ancient carpet in liquid white. But in the faint shimmer, something stirred. A second shadow. Moving. Briefly. Just at the edge of the hallway.

She turned sharply.

But nothing was there.

Then came the knock. Soft. Controlled. Not timid, but respectful—almost ritualistic. Three measured taps. No more.

She didn’t answer. Merely waited.

A moment later, the door creaked open on silent hinges, and a servant entered. He was young, faceless in the dark, dressed in formal livery that bore no family crest—an intentional anonymity.

He bowed low without speaking and held out a box. Rectangular. Polished black wood with gold hinges. Sleek. Purposeful. The kind of box used for ceremonial daggers, or old contracts laced with blood.

He approached the side table, placed the box carefully down, then stepped away and exited the chamber without a word. The door clicked shut behind him.

Valentina stared at the box from across the room. Her breath stilled in her lungs.

She walked slowly toward it, every step making the silence louder. The train of her robe whispered across the floor like smoke trailing behind a fire that hadn’t gone out.

Her gloved fingers brushed the lid.

It clicked open.

And there they were.

Roses.

Black.

Dozens of them, nestled into a bed of black silk that gleamed faintly under the chandelier’s low light. The petals were impossibly dark—richer than coal, deeper than ink. Some curled at the edges, as though burned. The scent was intoxicating, strange—neither floral nor pleasant. Sweetness laced with something metallic. Decay dressed in perfume.

These weren’t florist roses.

They were a message.

Nestled between the stems was a single card, cream-colored, the corners slightly curled. No wax seal. No name. Only ink, handwritten, in slanted, deliberate strokes:

Your sister left me bleeding.

Will you do the same?

Valentina read the words twice.

Then a third time.

The paper trembled in her grip, but not from the wind.

A chill slid down her spine like a cold hand pressed to bare skin.

Luciana.

The name slammed through her like a memory dipped in gasoline. Her sister’s shadow had haunted the estate for weeks, but this... this made it flesh again. Real. Immediate.

Since unlocking the vault, since pressing her own blood to Luciana’s ancient seal, Valentina had felt her sister’s presence rising like smoke in a closed room. It clung to her. It echoed in her dreams. Now, someone else had felt it too—and reached through the past to remind her: Luciana was not finished.

Whoever had sent the card didn’t want answers.

They wanted reckoning.

Valentina looked down at the roses again.

The message wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t some grieving tribute. It wasn’t nostalgia.

It was a question laced in venom.

And an invitation to war.

She turned the card over. Nothing on the back. No signature. No date. No origin.

The ink smelled fresh.

Whoever had delivered this hadn’t done it through a florist’s gate or a servant’s slip. They had come close. Slipped past security. Or worse—had help from within.

She gently closed the box, but the scent of the black roses lingered, curling around her like a noose. Her jaw tensed.

It wasn’t just a warning.

It was a test.

Would she bleed like her sister?

Or would she finish what Luciana started?

Her gaze returned to the mirror above the fireplace. Her reflection stared back—same cheekbones, same mouth, but something colder behind the eyes. She didn’t know if the reflection was hers anymore. Or if it belonged to the part of Luciana she hadn’t yet buried.

Or worse—the part of Luciana now waking up inside her.

She looked at the bouquet one last time.

Not a gift.

A curse.

And one she would answer.

In blood.

Or in kind.

Just then, a knock interrupted her spiral.

Reina.

She entered, unannounced as always. Dressed in black, her expression unreadable.

"He's sent a message," Reina said, holding out a burner phone.

Valentina frowned. "Who?"

Reina placed the phone in her palm. A single text blinked on the screen:

Don't trust your blood. Or your reflection.

\- A

Valentina stared. Adriano.

Her throat tightened.

Reina tilted her head. "You understand what that means?"

"I think I do," Valentina whispered. "But I’m starting to wonder if I trust myself."

Later that night, as the moon tilted closer to the horizon, Valentina found herself drawn to the east wing.

A door had been left slightly ajar. The vault.

Not the main vault—the inner vault. Luciana's.

She hesitated. Then stepped inside.

What she didn’t expect was the flickering blue light.

A laptop screen.

Someone had left it open on surveillance footage.

And what she saw made her knees weaken.

It was her.

Valentina.

Sleepwalking.

She was barefoot. Eyes open, but distant. Walking slowly through the corridor. Her lips moving.

The audio was faint. But one word cut through like a dagger.

"Luciana."

Again.

"Luciana."

She watched herself approach the vault keypad and enter the code flawlessly. She didn’t remember this. Not even vaguely.

The clip ended.

Valentina slowly closed the laptop, her heart thudding.

She wasn’t just being haunted.

She was being used.

And maybe, just maybe, she was already losing control.