The Woman in the Mirror

The notebook had once belonged to her mother, Isabella Moretti.

But Grace was beginning to believe it was more of a confession than a diary.

Tucked between worn pages, she found a photograph.

Two women.

One was Isabella.

The other… was Luciano's mother.

The back read:

> "We started the fire. Now our children will burn."

Grace's breath caught.

Her mother and Luciano's were friends?

No—partners.

---

In Rome, Luciano paced his father's old study.

He hadn't set foot in it since the man's death.

Everything was covered in dust, but one drawer was open.

Inside: a black envelope with Grace's name on it.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

His mother's.

He opened it, hands trembling.

> "If you're reading this, it means the sins we buried are clawing their way out.

Isabella and I… we were never victims.

We were architects.

Of death. Of power.

Of bloodlines."

> "And Grace… she wasn't meant to fall in love with you.

She was meant to replace me."

Luciano staggered.

His mother hadn't just known Grace.

She'd chosen her.

Groomed her from birth.

To continue the empire.

To marry power.

To control the world they once tried to burn.

---

In Venice…

Grace slammed the book shut.

What if all of this was orchestrated?

Her father. Her mother. Luciano.

What if she was never in control?

She punched the mirror.

Shards fell like silver rain.

Her reflection fractured.

And for the first time, she didn't recognize the woman staring back.

Was she still Grace Moretti?

Or had she already become what they'd designed her to be?

---

Later that night, a letter was slipped under her door.

No name. No handwriting.

Only a message:

> "Come home, Grace. Before the wrong version of you takes your place."

And below that…

A single black feather.

The calling card of the Black Dagger Circle.

A group that was supposed to be long dead.

But Grace knew better.

They'd just been waiting—for her.

---