Broken Crowns

Prologue

The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant lapping of water against stone. Venice slumbered beneath a moonlit sky, its canals like black ribbons winding through the heart of the city. A solitary figure moved through the maze of narrow alleys, his face obscured by the collar of his coat and the weight of his thoughts. Angelo De Luca knew this city well—the crumbling facades, the narrow bridges, the shadows that seemed to breathe and shift with every step. Tonight, those shadows pressed closer than ever.

Clutched tightly in his hand was a worn leather briefcase, aged and frayed from years of use, and heavy with the secrets it held. Secrets that had once shielded his family, but had now turned into something far more sinister. He could feel the danger all around him, creeping like fog, dark and inescapable. Each step echoed louder than the last, reverberating through the empty streets. He had promised himself he’d be careful. But careful was never enough when Matteo Fioravanti was involved.

As he crossed a secluded bridge, Angelo hesitated, sensing the change in the air—a tension, invisible but palpable, as if the city itself held its breath. He stopped mid-stride, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He scanned the darkness, straining to see beyond the shadows. And then, like phantoms emerging from the night, figures appeared from the obscurity, surrounding him. Each face was a reminder of his past mistakes, of debts that could never be fully repaid.

One figure stepped forward, moving with the ease of someone long accustomed to power and fear. Matteo Fioravanti, his expression cold, his eyes sharp as glass. Angelo had once called this man a friend, but tonight, there was no trace of friendship in the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. Only the hardened ruthlessness of a man who knew how to destroy without lifting a finger.

“Going somewhere, Angelo?” Matteo’s voice was smooth, almost cordial, carrying a hint of amusement that made Angelo’s skin crawl. The words hung in the air, deceptively casual, like an echo from a distant past.

Angelo held his ground, his fingers tightening around the briefcase, his only shield against the threat that loomed before him. “Leave my family out of this, Matteo,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Isabella has no part in any of this.”

A cruel smile curved Matteo’s lips, a glint of mockery in his eyes. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, old friend,” he replied, each word laced with cold certainty. “Isabella has everything to do with this. She’s always been a part of it.”

The words hit Angelo like a blow, stirring the fear he had fought so long to keep buried. He had tried to protect Isabella, to shield her from the sins of his past. But he had known, somewhere deep inside, that it was only a matter of time before the darkness he had tried to escape would reach her. That it would come in the form of men like Matteo, men who saw loyalty and family as mere tools, weapons to be wielded or discarded at will.

Matteo gestured to the men flanking him, who advanced with a cold, practiced efficiency. Angelo’s mind raced, searching for an escape, but the alleys were narrow, the bridge behind him an insurmountable drop into dark waters. There was no way out.

In that moment, a strange calm washed over him. If he couldn’t escape, he could at least buy Isabella time. Time to leave Venice, to put distance between herself and the men who would hunt her, who would stop at nothing to erase the truth her father had tried to bury.

Taking a slow breath, he lifted his chin, his gaze steady as he looked at Matteo. “You may think you’ve won, but I promise you, this isn’t over,” he said, his voice low and unyielding. “There are things even you don’t understand, Matteo. Things that can’t be silenced.”

For a moment, Matteo’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking his smooth mask. But then he laughed, a hollow sound that echoed against the stone walls. “You always did have a taste for theatrics, Angelo,” he sneered. “But we both know that words are meaningless without power. And in this city, I hold all the power.”

With a nod, Matteo’s men moved forward, hands reaching, unfeeling and mechanical, like extensions of the man who commanded them. As they seized him, Angelo’s grip on the briefcase tightened, and he felt the weight of the papers inside—papers he had spent a lifetime gathering, evidence of every transaction, every betrayal, every secret Matteo had tried to hide.

As they wrested it from his grasp, Angelo's thoughts turned to his daughter one final time. He had raised her to be strong, independent, unafraid of the truth. And he knew, with a bittersweet ache, that she would come looking for answers. She would seek justice where he had failed, because that was who she was—fearless, stubborn, and determined to a fault.

And that would make her a threat.

Angelo struggled against his captors, but they held firm, unyielding. As Matteo stepped closer, his voice softened to a whisper only Angelo could hear. “Your daughter will come, Angelo. And when she does, she’ll find nothing but ashes.”

Angelo met his gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to give Matteo the satisfaction of seeing fear in his eyes. “Isabella is stronger than you think,” he replied, his voice barely audible, but fierce, defiant. “And someday, she’ll make you pay for everything you’ve done.”

A flicker of anger passed over Matteo’s face, but he quickly masked it, his expression slipping back into its usual calm. He signaled to his men, who pulled Angelo forward, forcing him to his knees on the cold, damp stone. The city was silent, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting, watching.

As the world around him dimmed, Angelo closed his eyes, a silent prayer slipping from his lips—a prayer for Isabella, for the strength she would need to face the darkness that awaited her, and for the courage to uncover the truth, even if it shattered everything she knew.

In the stillness, Venice remained indifferent, its canals dark and silent, holding within them secrets that would never truly fade. And as Angelo’s life slipped away, the city bore witness, unchanged, untouched, its ancient walls carrying yet another secret into the night