The Beginning of the End

The hum of the private jet faded into the distance as Bianca Salvatore stepped onto Sicilian soil. A warm breeze carried the scent of the Mediterranean, mingling with the distant aroma of citrus and salt. The sky was a dying ember of orange and crimson, bleeding into the horizon. Palermo—the city she had once called home, now a battlefield she had no choice but to enter.

A sleek black car awaited her at the tarmac, its polished exterior gleaming under the last light of day. Without a word, she slid into the backseat, her fingers tightening around the strap of her leather duffel bag. The driver, a man of few words, nodded in acknowledgment before steering them through the winding streets of the city.

She barely registered the familiar sights as they passed—the ancient architecture, the murmurs of life along the cobbled roads, the distant toll of cathedral bells. Her mind was already tangled in the web she was about to weave.

The headquarters of the Salvatore family stood tall and foreboding, its iron gates yawning open like the maw of a beast. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather, aged whiskey, and the unmistakable weight of authority. Men lined the halls—armed, disciplined, their gazes sharp as they acknowledged her presence with silent nods. She moved past them, her boots clicking against the marble floors, until she reached the grand office where Vittorio Salvatore awaited her.

Seated behind an expansive mahogany desk, Vittorio barely glanced up as she entered. He was a vision of command—dark suit impeccable, a cigarette idly burning between his fingers, his expression unreadable.

"You're late," he murmured, tapping the ash into a crystal tray.

She dropped her bag onto the nearest chair, exhaling slowly. "The flight was long. I need to rest before we discuss the plan."

Vittorio let out a slow, humorless chuckle. "Rest?" He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that burned. "Do you think this is a war of blood, Bianca? That we'll carve our way to victory with bullets alone?"

She said nothing, but her silence was answer enough.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, shaking his head. "No. This war will not be fought with guns and violence—it will be waged in the heart. With deception. With emotion. With betrayal."

Bianca held his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in her bones. There would be no respite, no luxury of time to steel herself.

Vittorio's lips curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "But since you ask so politely—" he flicked his cigarette into the tray and rose to his feet "—take a rest. We'll discuss our plan after dinner."

She inclined her head, offering no gratitude, no acknowledgment. She turned on her heel and strode toward the guest quarters, but Vittorio's voice followed her before she could leave.

"Don't get too comfortable, Bianca."

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"You have a role to play. And it starts the moment you wake up."

She said nothing—just walked away, the weight of the night pressing down on her like a promise unspoken, a fate already sealed.

The iron gates loomed before her, the weight of the past pressing against her chest as she stepped forward. The place—no, the kingdom of blood and power—stood unchanged, a monument to a history she had once been forced to leave behind. Five years of her childhood had been spent here, but then her father had taken her away, severing her from the world where blood dripped with every breath, where vengeance was currency, and death a shadow that never truly left.

He hadn't wanted her to be part of it.

He had lost his own parents to this life, had watched his brother refuse to walk away, consumed by a fire that could never be extinguished. Her father had chosen differently, stepping away while still carrying the weight of his last name. In London, he had built a new life, far from the endless cycle of bloodshed, but never truly free. He was still Salvatore—his name alone ensured he could never sever himself completely.

And then the news had come.

His brother and sister-in-law, murdered.

He had returned only to see the same mistake repeating itself. Vittorio, his nephew, blinded by the same hunger for revenge that had destroyed his own parents. He had tried to stop him, had told him to leave it all behind, to walk away before he met the same fate. But Vittorio had never listened. His path had already been carved in blood.

And now, today—his own daughter had returned to that same place.

He had tried to contact her, but she hadn't answered. And now, he was going insane, unable to reach her, unable to pull her back before it was too late.

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She stepped inside, the scent of aged wood and faint traces of gunpowder lingering in the air, mingling with memories that refused to resurface. Her childhood here was a blur, fragments of laughter and warmth from the only people who had ever cherished her, lost somewhere in the haze of time. But she hadn't come back for the past.

She had come for them.

For her uncle. For her aunt. For the ones who had loved her while she had been forced to stay away.

A maid approached, bowing her head slightly.

"Miss Bianca, follow me. Your room has been prepared as per Master Vittorio's instructions."

She followed in silence, letting herself be led through the halls, her mind too burdened with the weight of her return. Once inside, she shut the door behind her and exhaled. The tension in her shoulders refused to ease.

Stripping off her coat, she reached for her phone, her brows furrowing at the sight of the missed calls—her father.

Her stomach twisted. She hurriedly pressed the call button, gripping the device tightly as it rang.

The moment the call connected, his voice lashed through the receiver.

"Bianca! Dio mio (my god), where are you?! Why the hell did you go back there?"

She closed her eyes. "I had to."

"You had to?" His voice sharpened. "You need to leave. If our enemies find out you're there, they—"

"I'm not leaving, papà.." Her voice was steady. "I came here for my uncle and aunt. They—"

"They're gone, Bianca!" he snapped, his frustration laced with desperation. "And if you don't get out of there, you'll be next!"

Silence stretched between them.

She knew he was afraid. He had spent his whole life trying to protect her from this world, and now she had willingly stepped back into it.

But she wasn't a child anymore.

She had made her choice. There was no room for hesitation, no space for second thoughts. If she wanted revenge, she couldn't remain the same. She had to shed the remnants of innocence that still clung to her, carve herself into something unrecognizable. A shadow of mercy would only be a weakness, and she could afford none. She had to be ruthless, unrelenting—a beast forged in vengeance. There was no turning back now.

"I'm not leaving," she repeated, softer this time.

A long exhale. Then, a pause.

And then—

"I'm calling Vittorio."

The line went dead.

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Vittorio leaned back against the leather chair, a cigarette burning between his fingers when his phone rang. A smirk curled at his lips as he glanced at the name flashing on the screen.

He answered on the third ring.

"Zio (uncle)," he greeted smoothly.

"Don't play games with me, Vittorio," his uncle's voice was a low growl. "Why did you call her there? What the hell are you planning?"

Vittorio chuckled, taking a slow drag before exhaling. "I see you already know she's here."

"Tell me. Now."

Vittorio's smirk faded, his voice turning to steel.

"I found them."

A silence that carried the weight of years.

"I found the ones who killed my parents."

Another drag of his cigarette. His eyes darkened, burning with the same fire that had fueled him for years.

"And I'm going to make them pay."

His uncle's voice was sharp with disbelief. "Why her? You can take revenge on your own, Vittorio. You don't need to drag her into this."

Vittorio leaned back in his chair, his gaze cold, unwavering. "She is part of my plan now. No one else can do what she will. I don't trust outsiders with this, and I don't need weak links. Bianca is the only one who can play this role perfectly."

His uncle exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the way his fingers curled into fists. "She is your family, not a pawn in this war."

Vittorio's lips twisted into a smirk, but there was no humor in it. "That's where you're wrong. Family is the only piece worth moving in a game like this. The ones who have lost everything are the ones who fight the hardest."

A heavy pause stretched between them. His uncle exhaled sharply; frustration evident even through the phone. But he knew there was no changing Vittorio's mind.

Dinner was a quiet affair, the weight of unspoken words settling over the table like a suffocating fog.

Vittorio barely glanced up as he spoke, his tone dismissive yet commanding. "Meet me in my office after dinner, Bianca."

She lifted her gaze, nodding once. "Okay."

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

The study was dimly lit, the heavy scent of old books and aged whiskey hanging in the air. Vittorio stood by the window, watching the city beyond, his posture rigid as if bracing for war.

He didn't turn when she entered. "The plan I'm about to tell you is dangerous," he said, his voice calm, calculated. "Like stepping into a tiger's cage. If you go in, there is no turning back. The only question is—will you be the one who devours, or will you become prey to the Mafia King?"

Bianca didn't flinch. Her resolve had already been carved in stone. "I know," she said, voice steady. "And I'm ready. I'll help you take revenge for those who were my parents too. Just tell me—who is the Mafia King?"

Vittorio finally turned, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Lorenzo Valente."

A beat of silence passed, the name settling between them like a vow.

"And what's the plan?" Bianca asked.

Vittorio exhaled, tapping his fingers against the desk. "We start in three days

She exhaled slowly. "Okay. I understand. After three days, we start."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her at the door.

"Here." He tossed a file onto the desk. "This has everything you need to know about him. Read it properly."

She picked it up, fingers tightening around the edges. "Okay."

Then, without another word, she walked out, file in hand, carrying the weight of her own vengeance.

This was the beginning of something that would shatter everything—lives, loyalties, and the very foundation of power. A storm was brewing, one that would leave nothing untouched.

And the man who was the prey in their ruthless game remained unaware, oblivious to the trap being laid.

Lorenzo Valente had no idea that the war had already begun.