Chapter Eleven: The Queen’s Gambit
Rain lashed the windows of the Moretti estate like a warning from the gods. Ronnie sat at the end of the long oak war table, fingers steepled beneath her chin, eyes locked on the flames dancing in the fireplace.
Across from her, Sparks was explaining the latest: offshore transfers traced to Valentina D'Angelo, warehouse seizures in East Harlem, and whispers of Tommy consolidating his own crew beneath a new banner—one with no family name.
"She's not just backing the remnants," Sparks said. "She's building something new. With him."
Ronnie's voice was razor-thin. "Then we dismantle it before it breathes."
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Flashback: Rome, years ago
Ronnie and Valentina at a gala, nineteen and furious. Silk dresses, bitter smiles.
"I hear you're your father's favorite," Valentina had whispered as they clinked glasses. "Shame he'll die before he sees you fail."
Ronnie smiled sweetly. "You'll die before you get close enough to see it."
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The memory flared in her chest. Valentina was a predator—cold, brilliant, unburdened by conscience. Her return was more than a threat.
It was a vendetta.
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Later, at the docks, Ronnie met with Luca and Mia in the rain. The city skyline bled light behind them.
"Giordano's gone underground," Mia said. "But Valentina's people are everywhere. It's not just about drugs or guns. They're buying influence. Judges. Councilmen. The next mayor."
Ronnie clenched her jaw. "And we've been playing with knives in a war of drones."
She turned to Luca. "We need a meeting. Face to face. Just her and me."
Luca blinked. "You think she'll come?"
Ronnie smiled. "She won't miss the chance to gloat."
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Scene: The Meeting at The Glasshouse
They chose neutral ground: an abandoned greenhouse on the west side, gutted but laced with old roses still climbing dead steel.
Valentina entered in white. Immaculate. Untouchable.
"You haven't changed," she said with a smile. "Still trying to save a sinking kingdom."
Ronnie, in black, arms crossed. "You haven't changed either. Still dressing for funerals you didn't earn."
They circled each other slowly, like ghosts tied to the same grave.
"I offered you a seat once," Ronnie said.
"You offered me scraps," Valentina corrected.
"You think you can rule this city with blood and bribes?"
"I think I can remake it. You? You're just clinging to the ruins."
Ronnie stepped closer. "I buried Dominic. I burned Giordano. I'll salt the earth you stand on if you come for what's mine."
Valentina smiled. "It was never yours. Just borrowed until someone smarter came along."
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They parted without gunfire—but the war had been declared.
Ronnie walked out into the night, breath fogging in the cold. She knew then—Valentina wouldn't strike first.
She'd wait. And when she did, it would be surgical.
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Meanwhile: Tommy's Sanctuary
Deep in the Bronx, Tommy stood before a table of new allies. Young, hungry, dangerous. He held the letter Ronnie had burned, or rather, a copy of it.
"She'll come for us," someone said.
Tommy nodded. "I hope she does."
"Do you still love her?"
Tommy didn't answer.
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Scene: The Trap
Ronnie returned to her estate to find it empty. Too quiet.
Then Sparks' voice over her earpiece: "Ronnie. You need to get out. Now."
Too late.
The explosion rocked the east wing. Fire bloomed like a rising god.
Ronnie was thrown back, smoke choking her.
Mia dragged her down a hidden passage as more bombs triggered in sequence.
The estate—the legacy—burned.
As they escaped through the tunnels, Ronnie looked back only once. Her father's chapel crumbled behind her.
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They regrouped in a safehouse across the river.
Cass was injured. Sparks was missing. Luca was unconscious.
Ronnie stood covered in soot and blood.
Valentina had struck first after all.
And she had taken everything.
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Ronnie looked in the mirror. She no longer saw the girl from Sicily. Not the daughter. Not the heir.
Just the queen of nothing. And the spark of something greater.
"Mia," she said. "Call the Albanians. And the Irish."
Mia blinked. "That'll start a real war."
Ronnie's eyes burned. "It already started."
This time, she wouldn't fight to preserve the crown.
She'd fight to forge it.
In fire. In blood. In betrayal.
The Moretti empire wasn't dead.
It was being reborn.
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