Three months earlier…

✦ A Bloody Inheritance ✦

The door creaked beneath his trembling hand.

Fabio took a deep breath. He was clutching the bronze keyring so tightly the metal was cutting into his skin. The cold of Aspromonte bit through to the bone—but that wasn’t why he was sweating.

It was because of what he was about to awaken.

He pushed the door open.

A lone lamp cast flickering shadows across the figure lying in bed. Dante Bellandi was asleep—or pretending to be. The family’s heir never let his guard down. Sleep was a luxury. A weakness.

“Sir…” Fabio whispered.

The click of a Beretta answered him. Cold. Lethal. Aimed straight at his temple.

“Who the hell are you?” Dante growled, voice rough, eyes half-shut but sharp—like a predator’s.

“It’s me. Fabio. Don’t shoot.”

Dante didn’t lower the weapon. He recognized him, yes—but recognition wasn’t trust.

“What time is it? What are you doing here?”

“They sent me to get you. You need to come. Now.”

Silence.

Then Dante rose, every movement deliberate. He dressed without a word, without questions. The dark coat draped over his shoulders like a warning. He walked behind Fabio like a shadow, down corridors where even the walls seemed to listen.

Each step sounded like a verdict.

Gianluca.

The name of his dead brother tore through him in silence. He could still see him, floating in the Tiber. Still hear his father’s sentence:

“Our blood is our curse.”

Dante was no leader. Not like Gianluca. He was shadows, scars.

But something was shifting that night. He could feel it.

It wasn’t fear tightening his chest.

It was the certainty that he was about to become everything he had once despised.

A Bellandi.

In Calabria, that surname was heavier than any crown.

And more dangerous than a bullet.

They turned a corner.

They weren’t heading for the meeting room.

They were going to Vittorio Bellandi’s private chambers.

The patriarch’s sanctuary.

Dante paused for a heartbeat. Something was off. The stiffness in Fabio’s neck. The tension in his stride. The direction.

Everything screamed danger.

“You can’t trust anyone,” his father had once told him. “Not even your own shadow.”

His fingers brushed the cold steel of his own Beretta. A silent caress. A reminder: he was still in control.

Even if it was an illusion.

They reached the oak door, massive and reinforced with iron. The knots in the wood looked like eyes—watching him, as if they already knew what he was about to find.

Fabio met his gaze.

“Avanti, signore.”

Dante stepped inside.

And the world stopped.

The room was full. Men in black. His mother at the center. No one spoke. Only the crackle of the fireplace filled the air.

And there, in the middle of the bed, atop white sheets, lay the body of Vittorio Bellandi.

His father.

The titan of Calabria.

Dead.

Skin grey. Eyes closed. The marble face that once commanded obedience with a single word—now lifeless, meaningless.

“No…” Dante whispered.

A tear slipped down his cheek, uninvited.

Was he crying for the man?

The father?

Or the monster whose crown now fell upon his head like a curse?

The room spun.

Then, a woman’s voice broke the silence.

“It was a massive heart attack.”

He turned. Mirella Bellandi. His mother. Impeccable, even in mourning. Her black dress seemed to drink the light, and her green eyes—sharp, unforgiving—betrayed not a single crack.

“Mother…” he gasped.

She nodded with funereal grace.

“He’s gone,” she said in a whisper. “My Vittorio… is gone.”

“But he was fine,” Dante stammered. “He wasn’t sick…”

Mirella caressed his cheek with poisoned tenderness.

“That’s the heart for you. Treacherous. Like this world.”

Dante looked back at the body.

It was real.

Undeniable.

His mother stepped closer. Her hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

“The time has come, caro mio,” she said softly, her voice hard as stone. “It’s you now. Only you.”

He shook his head. His chest ached.

“I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” she cut in, with the authority of a queen. “Your father prepared you for this with every look, every order. Even if you didn’t realize it.”

“I’m twenty-three…” His words cracked. “I know nothing about war. Or betrayal…”

“You’re no longer a boy, Dante.”

She looked at him with the eyes of a wolf. Cold. Resolute.

“You’re a Bellandi. And the Bellandis… do not break.”

★★★★★

Svetlana stood motionless, bathed in the golden glow of the bulbs that framed the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her without mercy: porcelain skin, straight-backed posture, eyes blue and cold as a frozen lake. The white tutu floated around her thighs like a suspended caress.

She had waited for this day her entire life.

And yet… something hurt.

“Today’s the day,” she whispered, not quite daring to believe it.

Tension danced in her chest. The air felt charged. Sacred. Cursed.

The entire Bolshoi seemed to be holding its breath—as if the theater itself knew that tonight, something would break.

A burst of childish laughter snapped her back to the present.

“Are you nervous?” asked Anya from the doorway, her tiny hands gripping a loosely tied blue ribbon.

Svetlana knelt and pulled her into a tight hug. Anya smelled of baby soap and magic.

“Thinking of you makes me fly,” she murmured.

“Papa says you shine brighter than the stars,” Anya whispered in her ear. “And I believe him.”

Svetlana kissed her forehead, eyes closing.

If there was anything purer than this, she didn’t know it.

“Go with Mama. Tonight… I’ll fly for all of us.”

Anya ran off, her dress swirling like a blue whirlwind. Svetlana turned back to the mirror. She tucked a loose strand of hair into place. The pearls woven into her bun trembled with every heartbeat.

A knock at the door.

“Five minutes,” announced Dimitri, peeking in with that mix of respect and barely hidden desire he never quite managed to disguise.

She nodded.

Breathed.

And walked toward the stage like someone heading to an execution.

The lights devoured her.

The music began.

And Svetlana disappeared.

Only Odette remained.

Each step was a silent scream.

Each arabesque, an open wound.

She spun, bled beauty, floated like a feather in the heart of a storm. The packed theater held its breath in reverent silence.

And when her body collapsed to its knees in the death of the swan, the air itself split in two.

Silence.

Then—

The eruption.

Thunderous applause. A roar. A standing ovation.

But Svetlana remained on the floor, her muscles ablaze, her soul laid bare.

She had kept her promise.

★★★★★

Her dressing room welcomed her with its familiar shadow. She pulled off her shoes with trembling hands. The mirror no longer reflected Odette. It showed her.

The woman who had bled in pointe shoes.

Who had emptied herself onto the stage and was still pulsing with life.

A soft knock pulled her out of the trance.

“Brava, Svetlana,” said Irina Vladimirovna from the doorway, eyes gleaming with the pride of a mother. “You made history tonight.”

Before Svetlana could reply, another figure stepped through the threshold.

And the world shrank.

“Papa…” she whispered.

Áleksei Ivanov entered with measured steps.

Tall. Commanding.

His gray hair neat, his large hands holding a bouquet of white lilies—the same flowers her mother loved.

“You were sublime,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

She threw herself into his arms.

That embrace tasted of childhood, old wood, and sweet tobacco.

And then, she saw her.

Tatiana.

Her mother sat there, in her wheelchair, lips still but eyes vivid.

Her gaze was an entire poem.

Svetlana knelt before her.

“How did I do, Mama?”

Tatiana’s hand trembled as it caressed her cheek, like sculpting the final detail of a masterpiece.

“Perfect,” she whispered. “My girl… perfect.”

Svetlana swallowed her tears.

There was nothing in the world more precious than that.

“Svety!” Anya’s voice rang out as she ran in, beaming like a full moon. “I’m hungry!”

Svetlana picked her up, laughing, and handed her to her father.

“Go ahead. Order something. I need to stay a bit longer to speak with my teacher.”

Áleksei nodded, and before leaving, he picked up a fallen flower and tucked it gently into her curls.

“Don’t take too long, malenkaya,” he said with a wink.

She watched them go.

And for a second, everything made sense.

Everything felt right.

★★★★★

Moscow slept.

Svetlana stepped out of the Bolshoi, scarf loosely draped around her neck, heart still glowing.

“You are my star,” Irina had told her.

And for the first time… she believed it.

Then came the screech of tires slicing through the night.

A black van. A sharp swerve. A scream of brakes.

Svetlana turned and ran.

But three shadows closed in—like wolves on prey.

“Let me go!” she shouted, struggling. “What are you doing?!”

A hand grabbed her.

Another covered her mouth.

A cloth. A sickly-sweet smell.

The world blurred.

“No… please…”

Her legs gave out.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

They threw her into the van like a broken doll.

The doors slammed shut.

The engine roared.

And Svetlana vanished into the coldest night of the year.

A few blocks away, Áleksei checked his watch.

“She should be here by now,” he murmured.

“Maybe she stayed behind with someone from the theater,” Tatiana offered, though her voice betrayed her worry.

No one knew yet—

But Svetlana’s dream…

Had just become a nightmare.