Page 61 of Fire and Silk
“If I take the inheritance directly,” I say, voice trailing lazily through the quiet, “my siblings will lose whatlittle composure they pretend to have. They’ll spend eternity attacking me—left, right, center. And they’ll win. Eventually. It’s two of them against one of me. Even my games have limits.”
I swirl the wine, watching the deep garnet roll along the crystal.
“But if I put a random mousy woman on the throne instead,” I continue, lifting the glass in a loose gesture toward the screen, “they’ll be too humiliated to think straight. Their pride will rot them from the inside out. They’ll fight harder, yes, but they’ll fight sloppier. That’s when it becomes fair.”
I lean forward now; forearms balanced on my knees.
“She and I, against them.”
Matteo exhales behind me. Not disagreement. Weariness.
“She knows nothing of this world,” he mutters.
I smile, and point again— with two fingers, like I’m picking her out of a portrait.
“Her eyes, Matteo. Her eyes speak of pain.” I take a slow breath. “And pain makes room. The more hollow someone becomes, the more space you have to fill them. I need her emptiness. I can shape it.”
I stand and stretch—arms overhead, spine popping softly beneath the silk of my robe.
“She’ll hunger,” I murmur, letting the thought rest on my tongue like a flavor. “And once she tastes power… real power… she’ll crush anything that stands between her and the next bite.”
Matteo opens his mouth as if to respond. Then closes it. Smart man.
A quiet beat passes. Then he asks the only question that matters.
“So, what’s your plan?”
I yawn, long and unhurried, before reaching for the velvet belt of my robe and retying it at the waist.
“I need a good night’s rest,” I say. “By the break of dawn, I’ll have my pitch ready for her.”
Matteo bows at the waist—mock-formal, but sincere enough to pass.
“In that case,” he says, “have a good night.”
I nod and turn toward the spiral stairwell that leads down from the observatory. My bare feet make no sound against the warm marble.
****
Dantès Estate, Front Courtyard
The knock pulls me from a dream I’ve already forgotten. Sunlight bleeds in from behind the curtains, pale and smug. I sit up, not in any hurry.
Matteo enters without waiting for me to speak. His expression is tight.
“They’re leaving,” he says. “The navy and the girl. Bags packed. They’re heading for the gate.”
I blink .
Then I rise.
Just a black shirt. Black joggers. I pull the shirt over my head, twist my hair into a low tie, and step into my shoes without a word.
Matteo trails me through the halls, down past the stone columns and out onto the veranda. The gravel’s still wet from last night’s mist. Crows scatter from the gate as we approach.
And there they are.
Salvatri stands like a soldier at the front steps—broad, braced, ready. Lira is beside him. Her hands clutch the hem of a cardigan. Her gaze darts toward me, then away. She doesn’t speak.
