chapter 4: the art of war

Alessia spent months training under Dante’s guidance. Every morning, before the sun kissed the rooftops of Naples, he would push her past her limits. He taught her how to fight—not just with her fists, but with her mind. Power wasn’t merely about strength, he told her. It was about control. About knowing when to strike, when to hold back, when to let your enemies destroy themselves.

She learned how to wield a knife with deadly precision, how to read a room the way a predator sizes up its prey. How to manipulate, how to strike fear, how to make men twice her size hesitate before crossing her.

And she changed.

The girl who had once scraped by, who had trusted too easily, who had been betrayed so cruelly—she was gone. In her place stood a woman reborn in the crucible of vengeance.

She became a storm.

And her sister would be the first to feel its wrath.

Yet, in the midst of her transformation, something else stirred between her and Dante—something just as dangerous as the war she was preparing for.

It began with stolen moments. A lingering glance after a grueling training session. The way his hands lingered just a second too long when correcting her stance. The sharp, clipped way he said her name when she tested him, when she pushed back, when she refused to break under his watchful gaze.

He was her mentor, her ally, her weapon. But he was also a man who looked at her like she was fire—and he had always been the kind of man drawn to the flames.

One night, after an especially brutal sparring session, she shoved him back against the wall of the dimly lit training room, her breath heavy, her body thrumming with adrenaline. “Again,” she demanded, her eyes blazing.

Dante smirked, wiping blood from his split lip, amusement flickering in his dark gaze. “You’re relentless, dolcezza.”

“You made me this way,” she shot back.

His smirk faded. Something unreadable passed over his face. Slowly, he stepped forward, closing the space between them until the heat of his body pressed against hers. He reached up, brushing his thumb over the bruise forming along her jaw, his touch both gentle and possessive.

“I did,” he admitted, his voice lower now, rougher. “And now, I can’t decide if I regret it.”

Alessia swallowed, her heart hammering. The air between them was thick with tension, with something unspoken yet undeniable. She had been so focused on vengeance, on reclaiming her empire, that she had ignored the fire kindling between them.

But now, it threatened to consume them both.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “Do you?” she whispered, testing him, daring him.

His answer came not in words, but in the way his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was equal parts fury and desire. It was a battle, a surrender, a war of dominance neither of them was willing to lose. He tasted of whiskey and danger, of promises made in blood.

And for the first time in months, Alessia felt alive.

She would have her vengeance. She would reclaim her throne.

But in the arms of Dante Valenti, she realized something else.

Perhaps, she had already won a different war.

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