Chapter 186

Chapter 186

A centuries-old dynasty, reduced to rubble in a single night.

I stared at the flood of news headlines on my screen, unable to suppress a small smirk.

"Your handiwork?" I glanced up at the man behind me.

Vincent set down his tablet. He leaned in, resting his chin atop my head, and pressed a soft kiss to my ear.

"I only had someone hack Alberta's phone and leak the yacht footage to a few mainstream outlets." His voice was low, laced with lazy amusement. "As for those tax records and money laundering evidence? That was your father's doing."

I blinked in surprise.

Vincent's large hand settled instinctively over my stomach, fingers tracing gentle circles. "The Colonna family controls over half the banking infrastructure in Europe. To your father, the Medicis' cash flow is an open book. He cut off their funding, handed the proof to the Justice Department, and that was it. The Medicis are done. They won't even get a chance to crawl back."

I leaned into his solid chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A warmth unfurled inside me—unfamiliar, but intoxicating.

In the slums, I'd always fought alone.

No matter how dire the situation, I'd only ever had my fists and my gun.

I never imagined that one day, someone would step in front of me without hesitation—wielding empire-toppling power just to shield me.

This feeling of being unconditionally protected by family was strange. But God, I wanted more of it.

I set my phone aside, turned in his arms, and looped my hands around his neck.

"What is it?" He lowered his gaze, his dark eyes reflecting my face.

"Nothing." I leaned up and brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. "Just thinking… finding my family feels pretty damn good."

Something tender flickered in Vincent's expression.

He tightened his hold and pulled me flush against him, deepening the kiss.

Three days later. The Colonna estate.

The homecoming gala was in full swing.

It was the grandest event the Colonna family had hosted in twenty years.

The entire estate blazed with light. Champagne roses—flown in from Paris—lined every red carpet stretching from the gates to the main hall.

The driveway was packed with armored luxury cars bearing license plates from across Europe.

Every guest was a titan—top-tier politicians, business moguls, old-money patriarchs. Even a few members of European royalty had made appearances.

Upstairs, in the private sitting room.

I sat before the vanity as the stylist fastened the final piece of jewelry around my head—a vintage tiara encrusted with pigeon-blood rubies. It was the heirloom crown passed down through generations of Colonna heirs.

I wore a heavily embroidered gown in deep crimson velvet. The cut was flawless—accentuating my figure while artfully concealing the slight swell of my stomach.

The door opened.

Vincent entered, dressed in a formal black tailcoat. His hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp, chiseled planes of his face.

Gone was the bloodstained aura of a mafia don. In its place was the suffocating presence of absolute authority.

He came to stand behind me, bracing his hands on the vanity, his gaze locking with mine in the mirror.

"Stunning." He dipped his head and kissed the bare curve of my neck, voice rough.

"Let's go." I rose and slipped my arm through his.

We stepped into the corridor. At the far end, my parents were waiting.

Father wore an impeccable suit. Mother, an elegant evening gown. When they saw me, their eyes glistened.

"Selena." Father approached, pride shining in his gaze. "Tonight, all of Europe will know—you are the sole heir of the Colonna family."

Mother stepped forward to adjust the train of my gown, her eyes glinting with a secret smile.

"Come, sweetheart." She took my hand. "Tonight isn't just your homecoming. Your father and I have prepared a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" I raised a brow.

Mother didn't elaborate. She simply took my arm.

But instead of leading me toward the glittering ballroom on the first floor, she turned toward a private elevator at the opposite end of the hall.

Father followed close behind, his expression cold—razor-sharp with the cruelty befitting an old-money patriarch.

Vincent held my other hand. He seemed to already know what this "surprise" entailed. His thumb traced soothing circles against my skin.

The elevator doors slid shut. Father pressed the button for sublevel three.

The descent was slow. The air grew noticeably colder.

The metal doors parted.

The basement of the Colonna estate was a private dungeon—medieval in design, preserved through the centuries.

The air reeked of blood, antiseptic, and damp stone.

Colonna guards stood at attention along both sides of the corridor. They bowed respectfully as we passed.

Father strode ahead and pushed open a heavy iron door at the end of the hall.

I followed Vincent inside. The moment I saw what lay within, my steps faltered.

In the center of the vast interrogation chamber stood two massive iron crosses.

Thick chains descended from the ceiling, locking around two figures' wrists and suspending them in mid-air.

Mario. And Sophia.

They were alive.

I stared at the barely recognizable husks of human beings before me, my expression utterly blank.

I'd witnessed the yacht explosion firsthand. I'd assumed they'd been blown to pieces and scattered across the Atlantic.

But clearly, Mario's survival instincts far exceeded my expectations.

He must have sensed the danger in the final seconds before detonation and dragged Sophia overboard with him.

Even so, the shockwave and heat from the blast had reached them.

Mario's leg was bent at a grotesque angle—shattered by debris. His once-pristine suit was shredded into rags. His exposed skin was covered in dark scabs and lash marks.

Sophia looked worse. Her entire body was blistered.

But the worst damage was to her face—the face she'd once weaponized to seduce men. Half of it was now charred beyond recognition.

The skin had melted and bubbled, leaving raw, festering tissue exposed.

The Colonna intelligence network was terrifying indeed.

To dig out two half-dead fugitives in hiding and transport them alive to Switzerland—all within days.

At the sound of the door opening, Sophia struggled to lift her head.

Through matted, greasy strands of hair, her eyes locked onto me.

I stood before her in a deep crimson velvet gown, the Colonna family's pigeon-blood ruby tiara resting atop my head.

Vincent stood beside me like a devoted sentinel.

And my birth parents—Europe's most elite power brokers—gazed at her as though she were already a corpse.

The contrast shattered what little sanity Sophia had left. Jealousy coiled around her heart like a venomous serpent, sinking its fangs deep.