A King's Promise

The house had long since quieted, its grand halls bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers, casting golden reflections against the polished floors. Beyond the estate's walls, the city breathed in restless murmurs—the underworld never truly slept—but within these walls, there was only one battle Lorenzo Valente was fighting tonight.

And it sat right across from him, arms crossed, lips pursed in a stubborn pout.

"I said I don't want it," Isabella huffed, pushing the bowl away with a theatrical groan. "It's bland. Tasteless. I want something spicy."

Lorenzo, seated at the head of the long dining table, exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. His patience—usually unshaken in the face of ruthless men and high-stakes deals—was being tested by a sixteen-year-old girl wrapped in a blanket like a defiant little queen.

"You have a fever," he said, his voice calm but firm. "The doctor said no spices."

"But I hate this," she whined, nudging the spoon as if it personally offended her. "It's like eating soggy cardboard."

Lorenzo shot a look at their mother, who had finished her own dinner and now watched with quiet amusement. Their father's absence had left a void—one he had long since stepped into—but Isabella had never been deprived of love, never left to fend for herself in a world that would swallow her whole if given the chance.

That was why he couldn't let her win this argument.

"Eat, Isabella," he ordered, nudging the bowl back toward her. "You need to keep your strength up."

"No."

Lorenzo inhaled sharply. "Isabella."

"No," she repeated, meeting his eyes with that same infuriating stubbornness she had wielded as a child. "I'll throw up if I eat this."

His jaw tensed. "You will not."

"Will too."

He pressed his fingers against the table, his patience thinning. "You're being unreasonable."

"No, you're being unreasonable! You always—"

"Enough!"

The word came sharp, cutting through the room like a blade.

Isabella flinched.

The dining hall fell into silence, the only sound the soft clink of silverware against porcelain. Their mother and the maids had already excused themselves, leaving just the two of them behind.

For a long moment, Isabella stared at him, her wide, glassy eyes searching his face as if she no longer recognized him. Then, just as quickly, her lower lip trembled, her breaths came faster, and—

She burst into tears.

Lorenzo cursed under his breath, pushing back his chair as she recoiled. "Isabella—"

"No!" she cried, hugging herself as fresh sobs shook her small frame. "You yelled at me! I—I don't want you here! Go away, Lory! You're mean!"

He swore again, rubbing a hand over his face. He was used to breaking men without a second thought, bending them to his will, forcing them to kneel—but this?

This, he was helpless against.

With a sigh, he stood and circled the table, kneeling beside her chair. "Bella," he murmured, reaching for her, but she recoiled again, curling further into herself.

His chest tightened.

He had never apologized to anyone. Not his men. Not his enemies. Not even those who begged for mercy before their last breath.

But Isabella?

She was different.

She was his—the only innocence left in his world.

So, with a sigh, he did what he would never do for another soul.

"I'm sorry."

Her sniffles slowed just a little. "You... you are?"

His lips twitched. "Don't make me say it twice."

She peeked up at him, her big, tearful eyes filled with the kind of trust that could destroy him if he ever broke it.

Slowly, hesitantly, she unfolded her arms. And then—

She hit him.

Not hard. Just small, weak little fists against his chest, like she wanted to punish him for making her cry. "You're mean," she mumbled between hiccups. "You scared me."

Lorenzo let out a breathless chuckle, catching her wrists before she could hit him again. "I know," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I didn't mean to."

She sniffled. "You promise?"

"I promise."

She hesitated, then let herself fall forward, burying her face against his chest. He held her close, feeling the way her body shook with the remnants of her tears. He stayed like that until her breathing calmed, until she sighed against him.

Then, in a much smaller voice, she whispered, "I'm still not eating that."

He exhaled a soft laugh. "Yes, you are."

"No—"

Before she could protest, he scooped her up into his arms, settling her on his lap as he picked up the spoon. "Enough arguing, piccola (Little one)," he murmured, nudging the spoon toward her lips. "Eat."

She pouted but opened her mouth, finally allowing him to feed her.

By the time she finished, she was yawning, exhaustion creeping into her fevered body. Lorenzo carried her upstairs, gently setting her down in bed. He tucked the blankets around her, smoothing a hand over her hair.

"Lory?" she mumbled, half-asleep already.

"Hm?"

"Sing me something?"

He hesitated, then exhaled softly. He had barely opened his mouth when—

His phone buzzed.

His eyes darkened as he glanced at the screen.

Enzo.

Carefully, he stood, pressing a final kiss to Isabella's forehead before stepping away. "Sleep, bella," he murmured. "I'll be back soon."

She didn't hear him. She was already drifting into slumber.

Stepping out of the room, Lorenzo answered the call, his voice dropping into something colder, sharper. "What is it?"

On the other end, Enzo's voice was grim.

"Vittorio sent a message."

Lorenzo's grip on the phone tightened. "What kind of message?"

Enzo exhaled. "An invitation."

Silence stretched between them.

An invitation.

In the world they ruled, that word had only one meaning.

War.

Lorenzo's expression remained unreadable, his mind already calculating, strategizing. He glanced back at Isabella's door—the only sanctuary in his world.

Lorenzo's jaw tightened, his grip on the phone firm. The weight of Enzo's words settled over him like a shroud, thick and heavy. An invitation to war.

A declaration. A challenge. A line drawn in blood.

His voice was calm when he spoke, though his gaze burned cold. "Tell him that if he wants one, we'll give him one. The day after tomorrow." His words were precise, deliberate. The battlefield would not be chosen in haste; it would be calculated, prepared. "Make sure our men are ready. Tell them to handle their business tonight—meet whoever they need to meet. Tomorrow, we won't have time."

A beat of silence, then Enzo's curt response. "Understood."

Lorenzo ended the call, exhaling slowly. The house around him was still, untouched by the storm that brewed beneath its roof. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned, his steps near silent as he made his way through the halls, back toward Isabella's room.

The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open.

There, curled up beneath layers of blankets, she slept, her breath soft and even. The faint glow from the bedside lamp cast a golden halo around her face, highlighting the delicate features that still held traces of childhood.

Lorenzo moved closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. His fingers, so used to handling weapons and bloodstained deals, were impossibly gentle as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

For a moment, he simply watched her.

She was his only innocence. His only softness. The one thing in his world that remained untouched by the shadows he walked in.

Leaning closer, he murmured against her hair, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sleep well, piccola (little one)... I'll be back for you." A quiet promise. One he would never break.

Because he had to return. Not for himself—but for her. For their mother, who had endured every storm after their father's death, standing strong only because she had them.

He pressed a final kiss to Isabella's forehead before rising to his feet. With one last glance, he left, closing the door behind him.

Lorenzo moved through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps quiet against the marble floor. The weight of the impending war settled heavily on his shoulders, but there was one more thing he had to do before the night ended.

He reached his mother's door and pushed it open without knocking.

Inside, the room was bathed in soft golden light from the bedside lamp. His mother stirred at the sound, shifting slightly in her lying position. A faint sigh left her lips as she tried to sit up.

Lorenzo crossed the room in an instant, his movements swift yet careful. He reached her side just as she was struggling to lift herself. "Let me," he murmured, sliding an arm behind her back to help her up.

She leaned into his support, her fingers gripping his forearm for balance. "You never did learn patience, figlio mio (my son)."

His lips twitched slightly, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "I need to talk to you."

She studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his posture, the sharpness in his gaze. Without a word, she settled against the pillows, smoothing out the folds of her silk nightgown. "Then talk."

Lorenzo exhaled, running a hand through his hair. His voice was quieter when he spoke. "Vittorio sent an invitation."

His mother's expression remained unreadable, though the faint tightening of her fingers against the bedsheet betrayed her thoughts.

"And you accepted."

It wasn't a question.

Lorenzo nodded once. "The day after tomorrow."

She closed her eyes briefly, as if absorbing the weight of his words. When she opened them again, her gaze was steady. "You always knew it would come to this."

"I did."

A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths. Then, she reached forward, resting a hand lightly against his cheek.

"Your father would have done the same."

His jaw clenched. "My father died because of men like Vittorio."

"And yet, you walk the same path." There was no reproach in her voice. Just quiet acceptance.

Lorenzo didn't reply.

She sighed, her fingers brushing against his skin before falling away. "And Isabella?"

"She doesn't know."

"She never should."

"I know."

His mother held his gaze for a long moment, then, softly, she said, "Come back to us, Lorenzo."

His throat tightened.

He had never been one to make promises. Not to his men, not to the world that demanded violence from him at every turn.

But to her—to them—he would try.

So he said the only thing he could.

"I will."

Because failure wasn't an option. Not when everything he had left was waiting for him to return.

A heavy silence settled between them, one that held more than just words. Lorenzo exhaled, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, his voice quieter this time.

"Take care of Isabella more," he said. "Watch over her."

His mother's expression softened, but there was a flicker of something—something that told him she saw through the weight he carried. "I always do," she murmured. "She's my daughter too."

"I know, Mom," Lorenzo admitted, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I can't help it." He hesitated, then added, "Don't let her cry. But if she demands to see me... tell her I had to leave for an important business trip. That I'll be back soon."

A knowing look crossed her face, but she simply nodded. "I will."

Lorenzo stepped forward and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. It was a rare moment, one that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

Then, turning away, he stepped into the darkness.

The king had been called to battle.

And the war was only just beginning.