In the ensuing interminable hours, Serena strategized the breach. She was gaining the first two rings of the file defenses, revealing the cleanest stack of files. A totalitarian history book comprised of financial records, secret correspondence, and surveillance documents on Damiano himself. The financials had become her favorite subject as she made fingers fly over the keyboard. With clarity, she saw the interconnections between shell corporations and offshore accounts. Vecchio was being compensated by a competing syndicate, except it was not the Falcones named in her scheme. It was Bratva, the heartless Russian group known for their murderous rage. Vecchio was not just treasonous; it seemed he was instigating a war to tear the city apart while leaving him in a comfortable position to take back the ruined mess. Chilling knowledge, but not the one she sought. Now, she searched in the file names and metadata for anything even vaguely related to her brother. She searched his name, "Marco Vale," and came up empty. Vecchio was way too smart to use real names.

Her heart hammered in her rib cage. Changing the method, she searched by date. She typed in that torturous date branded into her soul, the day her world caved in. One file showed up. An audio log resting under one last and the most labyrinthine layer of encryption. The name sent icy shivers down her spine: REGICIDE. The killing of a king. Her blood froze. This was the smoking gun. This was the very heart of the secret. With trembling hands, she put in all her efforts to cross this last wall. It was brutal and draining, but at last, the soft chime of her laptop echoed in her ears: the file had been unlocked. She plugged the headphones she had fished from a nearby drawer, shut her eyes, and hit play.

Vecchio's voice pierced through her ears, crisp, unemotional, issuing orders to an underling. "The asset is confirmed on route. Moretti's car will be passing through the tunnel at 2300 hours. The courier has the package; he thinks it's a simple delivery for me." Serena's breath hitched. The courier. "Your team will intercept the vehicle inside the tunnel, out of sight of any external cameras. Eliminate the primary target. Make it look clean, a professional hit." There was a pause. A different voice asked, "And the courier, sir?" Vecchio's reply was instantaneous, delivered with the casual indifference of a god swatting a fly. "The courier is collateral. A loose end. No witnesses. Once Moretti is dead, the city will descend into chaos. The Bratva will make their move, and we will be positioned to take control. See to it." The recording ended.

Serena yanked the headphones off her ears with a strangled sob lodged in her throat. The world tilted; the luxurious suite dissolved into a dizzying haze. The primary target was Damiano. The courier, expendable collateral, was Marco. Her brother hadn't been murdered by Damiano Moretti. He had died in an unsuccessful assassination attempt of Damiano Moretti concocted by the man Damiano trusted with his life. Every pillar on which her existence stood-the ardent hatred, the right vengeance which had fueled her for so many years-collapsed into nothing. For all these years she'd been hunting Marco's killer, inhabiting his house, eating his food, reveling in his touches, while illuminations of his innocence were glaringly clear in her view. The anguish for Marco was raw and freshly tearing through her heart, distorted now by the bitter realization that he had died for nothing; an accident in the smallest of wars of which she knew nothing. She stared at the screen, her tears washing away the lines of code into incoherent streaks of light. The hatred that had become her sword and her shield was gone, leaving nothing behind but emptiness and sharp bitterness.

At that moment of total devastation and vulnerability, she heard the soft click of the key card outside her door. There was no time to react, to wipe away her tears or to mask her features into impassibility. The door opened, and Damiano entered. Back from setting into motion the initial rounds of his internal war, his face wore the mask of authority. But when he saw her, that mask faltered. He saw the laptop, the headphones strewn on the bed, and the naked devastation on her expression. He saw the silent tears tracking their naked paths on her cheeks. All his cold fury, all his royal authority disappeared from his visage, and this was replaced by something she could never have anticipated: a crumpled brow, genuine concern. "Serena?" he said, more softly than ever. "What is it? What's wrong?" He found her at the one moment when his whole world had fallen away, and the truth stretched out before them would remain a terrifying secret that would change everything.