Chapter 98

VALENTINA’S POV

I don’t remember how I got to the hotel that night; only the uncontrollable trembling in my hands, gripping the steering wheel like claws, and the deafening buzz in my head. Rage blurred everything, the lights of Palermo melting into red and golden streaks, the engine roaring as the road opened before me like a wound in the asphalt.

The image of my mother and my husband writhing together, laughing at me, at my wasted years, would not leave me.

I entered the Grand Hotel et des Palmes at dawn. I asked for a presidential suite—no luggage, no reservation—just my black card. The receptionist looked me up and down—the torn dress, the disheveled hair, the bloodshot eyes—and did not dare ask questions.

I locked myself inside the suite, the curtains drawn against the cruel Mediterranean light. I ordered a bottle of Sicilian red wine. Then another. And cigarettes. I lit one with trembling fingers, the smoke filling the air.

I thought. My head was a swarm of twisted plans. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t cry anymore; only think, draw lines of destruction.

At Sebastián, at my mother, at that cursed De Luca family. They believed they were untouchable, shielded by dirty money. But they hadn’t counted on me—Valentina Russo-De Luca—who has nothing left to lose.

The first name that came to my mind was Mateo. The saint. The miracle priest. The hypocrite who preaches love and purity while fathering bastards he hides like sins.

I watched the news on the suite’s television, the scandal still bubbling: denials, parishioners’ tears, the Church closing ranks. And I laughed, a bitter sound filling the room.

I knew that if I touched him—if I dragged him publicly to the bottom—I would wound Sebastián at his deepest core. Because that brother was his pride, his only clean stain in an empire of blood. Destroying him would be like cutting the family’s heart out.

I searched everything I could on my laptop. Nothing useful; the Church had covered him well. But I know how to move in the shadows. I have contacts forged in years of mafia marriage: people who owe favors, people without morals.

I made a forbidden call, a number I had promised never to dial again. An old associate of the family business, a hacker who obtains hidden information. I asked for what no one should ask for: traces of Lucía.

“I need everything. Where she lives, who she’s with, who protects her. Photos, addresses, names.”

The man laughed on the other end, a cynical sound.

“That’s dangerous information, Valentina. It could cost you your head.”

“I don’t care,” I replied, my voice steel. “I’ll pay double. Triple if necessary.”

I knew Sebastián had his men blocking any access to that file, protecting his brother. But no wall stands forever when someone pays enough, when hatred is the fuel.

While I waited for his response, I made more calls. To the family’s enemies, the same ones Sebastián had betrayed years ago. I offered them information about smuggling routes, controlled ports, bought police contacts.

“What do you want in return?” one of the capos asked.

“His fall,” I answered without hesitation. “And his head on a platter, if possible. His and Sofía’s.”

Silence on the other end. Then a slow, satisfied laugh.

“Deal.”

I hung up and breathed deeply, my chest expanding with dark pleasure. I was alive for the first time in years, electrified by revenge.

Two days later, locked in the suite with empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays, the informant called me. His voice sounded nervous.

“Valentina, I got something. I don’t know if it’s what you’re looking for, but… be careful. This is dynamite.”

I opened the attached file on my laptop, my heart pounding with anticipation. Blurry but clear photos: Lucía in a Sicilian mansion, holding the twins in her arms. Detailed reports: secret transfers, De Luca protection, anonymous bank accounts.

And one name stood out in every document like a bullet: Damián.

I read every line greedily. The failed kidnapping. The attacks against Mateo. Damián’s psychotic obsession, the ex who won’t let go.

I smiled, a cruel curve of my lips. A broken man, consumed by hatred. The perfect instrument—sharpened and willing.

I searched his name in dark databases, located him: a false address, contacts, records of a ghost hiding in basements. But I know how to summon ghosts, call them with promises of blood.

I dialed the number the informant had unearthed. A hoarse voice answered, thick with suspicion.

“Who’s this?”

“Let’s say someone who can help you destroy your common enemy,” I replied, my voice smooth as poisoned silk.

Silence on the other end, then his breathing quickened, interested.

“Who are you? How do you know—?”

“A woman with your same motives, Damián. Shared hatred. We’ll meet soon. I’ll arrange the plane. Come to Sicily. Bring your rage—we’ll need it.”

I hung up before he could ask more, my pulse racing with excitement.

I lit another cigarette, poured another glass of red wine. I looked out the suite window, the lights of Sicily shining below like a promise of imminent fire, the sea roaring in the distance.

Now I have an ally: a madman with nothing to lose, armed with obsession.

And I don’t care who has to die in the process. Sebastián, my mother, the saint, the mistress.

They will all fall. One by one.

Because no one—no one—humiliates Valentina De Luca and survives to tell it. My revenge will be legendary, and this cursed family will burn in the flames I ignite.