The memories were too vivid, too real. The echoes of her past life clawed at her, refusing to be ignored. She had been reborn for a reason. Fate had dragged her back from the abyss, not for mercy, but for vengeance.
And Dante Valenti was here to help her claim it.
The dim light of the café cast shadows across his face, sharpening the already dangerous edges of his features. He sat across from her, his posture relaxed but commanding, the embodiment of effortless power. His presence was magnetic—something dark and inescapable that demanded attention.
Alessia studied him, her pulse still unsteady from the onslaught of memories. “Why would you help me?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. Her narrowed gaze fixed on him, searching for deception.
Dante tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his stormy eyes. “Because, dolcezza,” he murmured, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise laced with steel, “I despise traitors the most. And I have my own reasons for wanting the De Lucas to fall.”
A smirk played at his lips, but his words carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t offering his help out of kindness. No, Dante Valenti was a man who played the long game, who moved his pieces with precision. He was a king of the underworld, and now, he was extending his hand to her.
A partnership—bound not by trust, but by something even stronger. Blood. Vengeance.
Alessia exhaled slowly, forcing herself to think beyond the lingering echoes of her past. “And what do you gain from this?” she asked, unwilling to be anyone’s pawn. “Power? Control? Or are you simply looking for an excuse to start a war?”
Dante chuckled, the sound rich and dark. “Power is always a benefit,” he admitted, swirling the last remnants of his espresso in the porcelain cup. “But this is personal.”
The intensity in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn’t just after power—he had his own vendetta. And if he was willing to help her tear down the De Luca empire, she didn’t need to question his reasons further. The enemy of her enemy was her greatest ally.
She leaned back in her chair, the weight of her decision pressing against her chest. This was it—the moment she truly accepted who she was. Not Alessia Moretti, the girl from the slums of Naples, but Isabella De Luca, the heir who had been stolen from her own life.
She met Dante’s gaze, her expression set with quiet resolve. “Then we have a deal.”
His smirk deepened as he extended a hand. She took it, their fingers tightening in a grip that sealed their pact. It was not a handshake—it was an agreement written in blood and fire.
Alessia would reclaim her empire.
And Dante would stand beside her, ensuring no one stood in their way.
War was coming.
And this time, she would not fall.
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