The Port of Valerra didn't sleep; it breathed. It was a heavy, mechanical respiration of clanking cranes, churning black water, and the distant, rhythmic thrum of freighter engines.
Tonight, the air was thick with the scent of salt and diesel, a cocktail that usually made my stomach churn with the memory of my father's death. But as I crouched on the rusted catwalk of Warehouse 14, I felt nothing but a cold, crystalline focus.
I wasn't wearing white lace anymore. I was dressed in matte black tactical gear, the fabric hugging my frame like a second skin. My hair was pulled back into a tight, severe braid. The stiletto was still on my thigh, but a suppressed 9mm handgun now sat in a holster at my hip.
"Target at ten o'clock," Dante's voice crackled in my earpiece.
I adjusted my grip on the railing, looking down. Two blacked-out transport trucks had just rolled into the pier. Four men climbed out—De Luca soldiers. I recognized them. They were the men who had stood guard at my father's funeral. Men I had called 'uncles.'
"They're early," I whispered into the mic.
"Vittorio is impatient," Dante replied. I looked across the yard to the crane tower. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there, a shadow with a long-range rifle, watching my back. "He wants those crates on the 02:00 freighter to Sicily. If those guns hit the market, he has enough capital to buy the Council's vote next month."
"He's not getting the capital," I said. "And he's definitely not getting the guns."
"Wait for my signal, Bianca. Don't let your anger outrun your aim."
I didn't answer. I was watching the lead soldier—a man named Enzo. He was my uncle's most loyal hound. He was the one who had taught me how to throw my first punch when I was seven years old. Seeing him now, knowing he likely helped tip my father's car into the bay, turned the blood in my veins to liquid nitrogen.
The soldiers began to unseal the back of the truck.
Crack.
The sound of a suppressed rifle shot echoed faintly over the sound of the waves. The crate Enzo was holding shattered.
"Go," Dante commanded.
I didn't take the stairs. I dropped from the catwalk, a fifteen-foot fall that I cushioned with a roll on the concrete. I was up in a second, my 9mm drawn and leveled before the De Luca men could even register the shadow in their midst.
"Drop them!" I screamed, my voice cutting through the wind.
The men spun around, their hands flying to their waistbands. They stopped when they saw me. The moonlight caught my face, and for a moment, they looked like they had seen a ghost.
"Miss Bianca?" Enzo stammered, his gun halfway out of his holster. "What the hell are you doing here? This is family business. You should be at the Moretti estate."
"I am at the Moretti estate, Enzo," I said, my finger tightening on the trigger. "Everything in this port belongs to my husband. Including what's in those trucks."
"The Boss said—"
"The Boss is a murderer," I spat. "And you're his accomplice. Drop the weapons, or the next shot doesn't hit the crate. It hits the space between your eyes."
Enzo looked at his men, then back at me. A slow, ugly smirk spread across his face. "You've spent too much time in the Moretti bed, little girl. You think because you're wearing black, you're one of them? You're a De Luca. You do what you're told."
He started to raise his gun.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't breathe. I pulled the trigger.
The bullet caught Enzo in the shoulder, spinning him around. He went down with a howl of pain. The other three men dived for cover behind the truck tires, return fire chipping the concrete at my feet.
I dived behind a stack of shipping pallets, the adrenaline singing in my ears. This was the moment. The threshold. Once I killed a De Luca soldier, there was no going back. I was no longer the princess of the Old Quarter. I was a traitor to my blood.
And I had never felt more alive.
Two shots rang out from the crane tower above. Two of the men pinned behind the truck slumped to the ground, silenced by Dante's precision.
The third man tried to bolt for the warehouse door. I stepped out from behind the pallets, leveled my weapon, and fired twice. He fell in a heap, his blood staining the grey concrete.
Silence returned to the pier, save for Enzo's ragged moaning.
I walked over to him, my boots clicking rhythmically. Dante descended from the crane tower, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He moved with the grace of a panther, stopping beside me as I looked down at the man who had lied to me for a decade.
"Finish it, Bianca," Dante said. His voice wasn't an order; it was an offering.
I looked at Enzo. He was clutching his shoulder, his face pale in the moonlight. "Bianca… please… your uncle… he did it for the family…"
"My father was the family," I said.
I reached into my tactical vest and pulled out the silver lighter Dante had given me. I flicked it open. The flame danced in the wind, a tiny, defiant spark.
"You remembered the docks, Enzo. Now, I want you to remember the fire."
I didn't shoot him. I kicked his gun away and looked at Dante. "The crates. Open them."
Dante used a crowbar to pry the lid off the lead crate. It wasn't guns.
Inside were dozens of black leather binders. I reached in and pulled one out, flipping it open. My breath hitched. They were the Port Logs—the original ones my father had been keeping. They documented every illegal shipment, every bribe, and every murder Vittorio had ordered for the last twenty years.
Vittorio wasn't trying to sell these. He was moving them to a secure location where they could never be found.
But tucked into the very back of the binder was a single, hand-written envelope.
To my Bianca.
My hands shook as I ripped it open. The handwriting was jagged, hurried.
"If you are reading this, I am already gone. Do not trust Vittorio. Do not trust the Council. There is a third player in Valerra, someone who moves the pieces while we all fight for the board. They call themselves The Vesper. Find the vault in the Old Cathedral. The key is in your mother's locket. I'm sorry I couldn't get us out, little bird. Run."
I stared at the paper until the words blurred. The Vesper? My father hadn't just been killed by a greedy uncle. He had been killed because he had uncovered something much bigger than a Mafia feud.
"Bianca?" Dante's hand was on my shoulder. His touch was firm, grounding me before I could spiral into the dark. "What is it?"
I handed him the letter. He scanned it, his jaw tightening as he read the name The Vesper.
"My father mentioned them once," Dante whispered, his eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the docks. "He said they were a myth. A shadow organization that controlled the city before the Mafia was even born."
"They're not a myth," I said, looking at the dead men on the concrete. "They're the reason my father is dead. And they're the reason we're married, Dante. They wanted us to destroy each other so they could take what's left."
Dante looked at me, a new, fierce light in his eyes. He didn't look like my enemy anymore. He looked like my only ally in a world that had just gotten a lot more dangerous.
"Then we don't give them what they want," Dante said. He reached down and picked up Enzo by the collar, dragging him toward the edge of the pier. "Vittorio is a puppet. We need to find the puppeteer."
I looked at the silver lighter in my hand, then at the black water where my father had died.
The war wasn't over. It hadn't even truly begun. My uncle was the first name on my list, but he wouldn't be the last.
I turned to Dante, the wind whipping my hair across my face. "We need to get to that cathedral."
"Then let's go," Dante said, his hand sliding into mine, his grip like iron. "Let's go see how deep this grave really goes."
Behind us, the first lights of dawn began to bleed over the horizon, but the shadows in Valerra were only getting longer.