Chapter 6 - The Viper Within
The atmosphere in the subterranean command center beneath Duca House was thick with tension and the smell of ozone. Monitored screens flickered with security feeds, thermal scans of the estate’s perimeter, and encrypted data packets intercepted from the internal network.
I stood near the heavy steel reinforced table, still wrapped in Roman’s coat, watching the ruthless efficiency of a crime syndicate preparing for war. Gone was the polished, untouchable businessman who had cornered me in my sewing shop; here stood a ruthless commander ready to tear his own empire apart to find the traitor.
“Who has clearance to the old Valente architectural schematics?” Roman asked, his voice deadpan and icy.
His chief of security, a scarred veteran named Victor, tapped a key on the main console. A digital holographic floor plan projected into the center of the room, highlighting a labyrinth of secret tunnels that predated the modern foundation of the Duca mansion.
“Only three people outside of yourself, Boss,” Victor replied, his eyes dark. “Me, head of logistics Julian Vance, and your uncle, Arthur Duca.”
The name hung in the air like a rotting anchor.
Arthur Duca. My husband’s uncle—a man who had spent the entire wedding reception smiling, drinking expensive scotch, and loudly betting on how fast Roman would grow tired of the “ugliest girl in town.”
“Arthur was the one who publicly mocked our marriage,” I whispered, sudden clarity cutting through my exhaustion. “He made sure half the ballroom heard him. He was drawing eyes, creating a distraction, while the perimeter was being compromised.”
Roman didn’t speak, but his jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might shatter.
“Arthur never forgave my father for cutting him out of the primary shipping routes after the Valente takeover twenty years ago,” Roman muttered, mostly to himself. “He thinks the syndicate belongs to him, and he’s spent years trying to prove I’m too weak to hold the throne.”
“He didn't just want the throne, Roman,” I said, stepping closer to the holographic map. “If he knows who I am—if he figured out that Kiara Valente survived the fire—he knows I hold the legal pre-emption rights to every single acre of harbor property currently registered under the Duca shipping empire. Under the old family charters, a surviving Valente heir can nullify any forced asset transfer signed under duress.”
Victor looked up from the console, whistling softly through his teeth. “Well, that explains why he tried to blow up the wedding. If you’re dead, the legal claim dies with you. If the marriage dissolves, the property gets tied up in probate forever.”
Roman turned away from the map, his dark eyes fixing on me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—something dangerously close to protective fury.
“He won’t get a second chance,” Roman said quietly, pulling a heavy matte-black firearm from his holster and checking the magazine with a sharp, metallic click.
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“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I’m going to family dinner.”
