Chapter 66: THE RETURN OF THE HEIR

POV: Adriano

The estate loomed under the weight of midnight. Not a soul moved along the gravel paths or behind the high stained-glass windows of the royal wing. But Adriano knew better.

Rumors had already begun to swirl, whispering through the corridors like wildfire smoke—he was either dead, in exile, or disgraced. Perfect.

In the shadows beneath the eastern balcony, Adriano climbed, breath steady, muscles burning. His body still ached from the bullet wound, bandages tight beneath his black shirt. But there was no more time to heal. War had come home.

He dropped silently onto the marble terrace and pressed his back to the stone. Inside, the lights were dim. The window latch clicked open under his knife.

A cleaner’s closet. Empty. Good.

He slipped through the inner halls like a specter, each step placed with military precision. The velvet runners muffled his boots. Ahead, the corridor opened into the west wing.

And that’s when he saw him.

Marco.

Alone. Standing at the far end of the hallway, reading a document. Sealed. Red wax. Crowned with a faint De Luca sigil.

Adriano didn’t wait.

He moved.

“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Adriano’s voice cut the silence like a blade.

Marco froze. His head turned slowly. “Well. The bastard son lives.”

“You tried to kill me,” Adriano said, stepping closer. “Didn’t work.”

“I grazed your side,” Marco sneered. “Next time, I’ll aim higher.”

Adriano dropped the dagger in his boot.

“Let’s finish this,” he said.

Marco didn’t hesitate. He charged.

Fists collided in a blur of fury. Adriano struck first—knuckles to jaw, Marco staggering back. But Marco was quicker than expected. He recovered, swung wide, caught Adriano in the ribs. Pain flared.

Adriano grunted, dodged left, drove his shoulder into Marco’s chest. They slammed into the wall with a thud that echoed down the corridor.

“Still trying to inherit what you never earned,” Adriano hissed.

“And you’re still playing knight for a girl who’s already crumbling.”

Adriano threw a punch. Marco ducked, elbowed him in the back. They crashed into a statue—marble arms shattering against the floor.

Marco reached for his gun.

Adriano kicked it away.

Their struggle turned vicious. No rules. No elegance. Just blood, sweat, and hate. Marco headbutted him, splitting skin. Adriano spat blood and laughed.

“Is this your strategy?” Adriano growled. “Beat everyone who remembers the truth?”

“You’re a relic, Adriano. And she’s worse. She’s delusional.”

Adriano’s eyes narrowed.

He slammed Marco’s head into the wall.

Hard.

Marco slumped.

Alive. But dazed.

Adriano wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard. Then, slowly, deliberately, he opened the inner jacket pocket, pulled out a white envelope, and shoved it into Marco’s coat.

“Deliver that to Don Primo,” he muttered. “A nice bedtime story.”

He turned and left.

A faint trail of red dotted the floor behind him as he moved. Blood dripped from his ribs—stitches torn in the fight. But he didn’t stop.

He followed the west corridor.

Valentina’s chamber door waited at the end, tall and black and etched with thorns.

He didn’t knock.

He pushed it open.

She stood at the mirror, still in her day clothes—red blouse, gloves on. But her eyes locked on him instantly.

She rushed forward. “Adriano?”

“I told you I’d come back,” he said hoarsely.

Her hand flew to his side. “You’re bleeding again. What happened?”

“Marco. In the hall.” He winced. “We had a heart-to-heart.”

Valentina turned, grabbed gauze from her drawer, and began wrapping his ribs without hesitation.

“Are you insane?” she whispered.

“Yes.” He hissed at the sting. “But only for you.”

She glared at him. “What if he had killed you this time?”

Adriano caught her hand, bloody fingers curling around her wrist.

“He’s building a case,” he said. “Something old. Hidden. They’re calling you unfit. Crazy. He’s using your dissociative episodes against you. Twisting it. Making you a liability.”

Valentina froze.

“He’s going to try and declare you mentally unfit for the crown.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed. “That... that’s why the psychiatrist came yesterday. Disguised as a business consultant.”

“They want the council to vote on it.”

Valentina stepped back slowly, the color draining from her face.

“They want to break me from the inside,” she whispered.

Adriano nodded. “They don’t need to beat you in court. Or in blood. They’ll let your own mind do the work.”

Valentina dropped into the chair by the fire. Her hands trembled.

“Luciana used to talk in her sleep,” she murmured. “Walk the halls. Whisper names that weren’t hers. I thought it was trauma.”

Adriano knelt before her, taking her hand again.

“It was survival,” he said. “You’ve lived in shadows so long, your mind built its own light. But you’re not broken. You’re adapting.”

She looked at him, eyes wide, lips trembling.

“What if they’re right?” she whispered. “What if I lose control again?”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers.

“Then I’ll hold you through it. Every second. Every storm. But they will never take that crown while I breathe.”

A pause.

Valentina exhaled sharply. Then leaned forward and kissed him.

Not gently.

It was the kiss of someone who had lost too much and still chose to fight.

His blood smudged against her cheek. Her glove peeled away. Their breath collided like dueling hurricanes.

And then, suddenly—

Her body went limp.

“Valentina—”

She collapsed in his arms.

Adriano caught her just before she hit the floor.

“Valentina!”

She didn’t respond. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her pulse—racing but steady.

He lowered her gently to the floor, checked her eyes.

Still breathing. But something was wrong.

She hadn’t fainted from shock. Or fear.

Something else was pulling her under.

A whisper escaped her lips as she drifted out.

“Luciana…”

Adriano’s hands clenched.

Someone had triggered this.

And someone was about to pay.