Extras Ch 2: Dante - A Kingdom Denied

Extras Ch 2: Dante - A Kingdom Denied

Dante was twenty-three when he first raised the subject of Zurich.

He had been managing the Volkov portfolio for four years by then. He reviewed the holdings quarterly: commercial properties, investment accounts, shell companies that existed only on paper.

Zurich appeared in the ledgers as a set of notations—property addresses, rental incomes, banking relationships—but never with the same detail as the Volkov assets. The numbers were summarized, not itemized. The ownership structures were opaque. And when Dante cross-referenced them against the family's primary accounts, he found no overlap. The Zurich holdings sat apart, like a separate kingdom with its borders closed.

He brought it up during a routine review in Viktor's study.

"The Zurich commercial properties," Dante said, tapping a page. "Three buildings in District 1, one in District 4, and what appears to be a significant stake in a private bank. The income streams are listed, but I can't find full documentation. If you want me to conduct a proper audit—"

"No." Viktor turned to him. "The Zurich assets are not part of our operation. They belong to Nadia. They were her family's before we married, and they remain hers. I have no authority over them."

Dante kept his expression smooth. "I wasn't aware of the separation."

"The Volkov name carries certain associations." Viktor's voice was not unkind, but it was final. "Nadia's inheritance is her own. Her family insisted on it when we married."

"And you've kept your word."

"Yes."

Dante said nothing. He filed the information away and moved to the next item on the agenda. But the Zurich properties continued to linger in his mind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was at dinner, some months later, that his understanding crystallized.

Nadia had spent much of the meal speaking about Kazimir—then barely three years old, asleep upstairs in the nursery. The schools he would attend. The values he would inherit. The legacy she would pass down to him.

"He'll have what my grandfather built," she said, her voice warming with each word. "What I've protected all these years. It will all be his one day."

She did not look at Dante once during the meal. She rarely did anymore.

Dante smiled through the courses and complimented the wine. But beneath his composed surface, he turned over her words.

That night, after the household slept, Dante went to Viktor's study.

He had known the safe combination for years—Viktor had given it to him as a gesture of trust, and Dante had used that trust freely, familiarizing himself with contracts and deeds, learning the architecture of the Volkov world.

He had reviewed most of its contents before. But there was one leather folder he had never touched. It was marked with old Swiss symbols and a rose—Nadia's family crest.

Her will.

He lifted it out and opened it.

The language was precise, legal, unemotional. It detailed the Zurich properties—the three buildings in District 1, the one in District 4, the stake in the private bank. It listed accounts Dante had never seen referenced anywhere else. It named trustees and executors and conditions. All of it, page after page, directed to her blood relatives.

Twenty-three pages of dense legal German.

And his name did not appear. Not once. Not even in exclusion. He was simply absent—as if he had never lived in this house.

Dante sat very still in Viktor's leather chair, the will spread before him.

The Zurich territories were not merely assets. They were the tangible proof of his exclusion. Nadia had a kingdom—a treasure chest of banking connections, commercial real estate, and a lattice of quiet influence—and she would let it rot before she let him touch it.

He was born in Zurich. He had survived on its streets after his father's death. He understood its rhythms, its institutions, its levers better than anyone in this house.

Those territories should have been his to manage, to grow, to transform. Instead, they would pass to a child who would never appreciate the territories’ true value.

Zurich. His Zurich.

Nadia held the keys—and she would never give them to him.

But that won’t stop Dante. He would find another way.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He found the breakthrough in Milan, three years later.

Dante had spent months searching for the right piece to place on his board. He needed a girl. Young enough to shape, old enough to be useful when the time came. Someone with no family, no loyalties, no one to turn to but him. Someone fierce enough to survive what he would ask of her, and clever enough to do it well.

Valentina was four years old when he first saw her, darting through the crowd. She was tiny—all sharp elbows and bony knees—but she was very intelligent. One look at those dark eyes, and Dante already knew she was different.

But just to be sure, Dante followed her for three days. He watched her lift a wallet from a tourist's unzipped bag with deft fingers. He watched her share her takings with a smaller boy who had failed to steal anything that day. He watched her take a blow from an older child who tried to take her food—and give one back, her small fist connecting with surprising precision.

Clever. Fierce. Loyal to those she considered hers.

And beautiful, even beneath the dirt—a face that would grow into something striking, something people would trust and want to protect.

She was perfect.

He approached on the fourth day, in a narrow alley behind a bakery. Valentina was halfway through a stolen roll when she noticed him. She backed into the deeper shadows, flattening herself into a doorway, shrinking instinctively. But her dark eyes never left his face.

Dante slowed his pace. He kept his hands visible.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice calm and warm.

Valentina did not relax. "Who you?" she asked in broken Italian.

"My name is Dante."

"Don't know you." Her round eyes narrowed, her chubby hands tightening around the pastry. "What you want?"

“I've been watching you.”

Valentina's expression didn't change, but she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, ready to bolt.

"Don’t leave yet." Dante smiled, beckoning lightly with a hand. “You’ll regret it if you do."

She glared at him, not the least appeased. "What you want?"

"I want to give you a choice." He smiled, warm and patient. "You can stay here. You'll probably survive. But you'll always be hungry."

Her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that belied her age.

"Or," Dante continued, "you can come with me.”

"Where?"

"I have a big house by the sea. Warm bed. Food every day. People who will teach you things—how to read and write, how to talk so nobody ever looks at you like you're nothing."

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Her expression flickered, brief softening before she hardened again. “You sound like kidnapper.”

Dante laughed heartedly at her remark, his pleasant voice bouncing off the walls.

Valentina clearly took offense. She balled her tiny fists and scowled, "Why you want me?"

He shook his head in amusement and squatted down to her eye level.

"Because I was like you once. I lived on streets like these." He said. "But someone once gave me a chance, letting me become the man I am today. So I want to do the same for you."

"You want a kid?"

"Yes, I want a child." His voice softened. "Somebody who deserves more than the street. Somebody fierce and smart. Somebody like you."

The silence stretched. Valentina studied him with those dark, assessing eyes—weighing his words, searching for the lie. Dante let her look. He had nothing to hide that she could see.

Then, very seriously, the girl said: "You lie, I bite you!"

Dante's smile widened, genuine this time. "Fair enough."

He offered her his hand.

She stared at it for three full seconds. Something shifted behind her eyes—weighing things only she understood. She was four, but she approached the choice with a gravity most adults never managed. After she finished whatever calculation she had in mind, Valentina reached out and took his hand. Her grip was small but surprisingly strong.

"Okay," she said. "I go."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The journey from Milan to the coast took two days. By the time they reached the coast, Valentina had begun to relax around Dante. Enough that she started asking questions about the house and the people she would soon meet.

"They nice?" she asked as the car wound up the coastal road.

"Some of them," Dante said. "The old man is very smart. You'll like him."

"’Bout old lady?"

He paused. "She likes children. She'll be kind to you."

Valentina absorbed this, tilting her head to study his expression in the rearview mirror. Then, with brutal perceptiveness, she asked: "She not kind to you?"

Dante looked at her. She met his gaze steadily, her dark eyes far too knowing for her age.

"No," he admitted. "She isn't."

Valentina nodded, confirming something she had already suspected. She reached forward and patted his arm—a small, clumsy gesture of solidarity.

"I bite her if you want," she offered.

Dante laughed. A real laugh, unexpected and warm. "That won't be necessary. But thank you."

She nodded again, satisfied, and turned back to the window.

About half an hour later, they arrived at the Volkov mansion. Valentina hopped off the car without Dante’s assistance but held his hand as he guided her into the mansion.

The servants paused to stare when she saw the girl stalking in with her chin lifted. But Valentina just raised a brow before turning away and ignoring them completely.

Viktor met the pair in the entrance hall. He leaned on a cane now, his silver hair thinning, his frame reduced by illness. But his grey eyes were still sharp, and when they fell on Valentina, they flickered with immediate interest.

"You brought a child," he said.

"Her name is Valentina."

Viktor studied her.

Valentina studied him right back, her head tilting. "You old," she announced.

For a second, Viktor froze. Then he suddenly let out a rough chuckle—the first genuine laugh Dante had heard from him in months.

"Yes. Yes, I am." He lowered himself carefully into a chair, bringing his face closer to Valentina’s level. "And you're very small. But you don't look scared."

"Not scared," the girl confirmed, her eyes twinkling. She pointed at his cane. "You got owie?"

"A heart owie," Viktor said. "It makes me tired."

"My mama got sick and sleep forever. You gonna go to sleep forever, too?"

Viktor's expression flickered—something unguarded passing across his weathered face. "Not yet. I still have work to do."

"Good." Valentina nodded firmly. "Work 'portant."

Viktor looked up at Dante, his grey eyes bright with amusement. "Where did you find this one?"

"Milan. She's been surviving on her own."

Viktor looked back at the girl. Whatever he saw in her made him smile again.

"Alright. She stays." Viktor nodded, gesturing to Valentina with his cane. "This one has fire. Kazimir could use someone like her around. He's too soft."

"Kazimir is six," Dante pointed out.

"Exactly. Soft." Viktor pushed himself up, wincing. He looked down at Valentina, who was still watching him with those dark, assessing eyes. "You’ll take care of my grandson, yes? He needs someone fierce."

Valentina scrunched her face in thought. "He share his food?"

Viktor laughed again—a rough, surprised sound. "Yes. He'll share his food."

"Okay." Valentina agreed. "Then I take care him."

"Good girl." Viktor said, reaching down and ruffling her matted hair. Then he straightened and looked at Dante. "Go find Nadia. Let her have a look."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Nadia was in the garden, kneeling among the roses. The afternoon light fell soft and golden across the flower beds, catching the silver in her honey-colored hair. Her face was thinner, lined in ways that spoke of age.

She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. When she recognized Dante, her expression became distant—the way one might regard a business associate one tolerated but did not particularly like.

"Dante. You’re back," she said.

"I brought someone." Dante announced calmly, not at all bothered by her frigid greeting. He stepped aside to reveal Valentina.

Nadia’s expression softened. The wariness that lived permanently in her eyes melted into something maternal when she saw the child.

"Who is this?" she asked, her voice already warmer by several degrees.

"Her name is Valentina."

Nadia rose slowly, brushing soil from her hands. She walked toward Valentina and studied her with those emerald eyes that had once looked at Dante the same way.

Valentina stared back, unblinking. Her small hand tightened around Dante's, but she did not retreat.

Nadia stopped a few feet away and knelt, bringing herself to Valentina's level. "How old are you?"

"Four." Valentina held up four fingers, then added, "Almost five. My birfday soon."

"And you have no family?"

"No. Mama sleep forever. I take care of me." Valentina's voice was clear, without exaggeration or self-pity.

Nadia's eyes already glistened, taking the girl’s small hand from Dante’s.

"You're safe now," she said softly. "No one will hurt you here."

Valentina considered this, pursing her lips. Then she asked: "You got food?"

Nadia’s mouth twitched, but she managed to smooth her expression. "Yes. We have food. Lots of food."

"Good." Valentina nodded once, decisively. "I stay."

Nadia laughed—a genuine sound, rusty from disuse. "This was kind of you, Dante," she said, finally looking at him.

Dante dipped his head and answered with practiced warmth. "I learned from you."

Those words made Nadia’s expression shift. Pain, perhaps. Or guilt.

The garden fell silent, save for the sound of water from the fountain.

Valentina’s eyes darted between them, reading the tension. Then she tugged on Nadia's sleeve to reclaim her attention. "Those pwetty flowers. What they called?"

"These are roses. My mother planted them.” The old woman smiled. “They're very old and very strong."

"Like you?" Valentina asked.

Nadia blinked, surprise softening her features. A flicker of pride lit her eyes before she could hide it. She smiled.

"Yes. Like me."

Valentina smiled back—a bright and disarming smile.

"Come," Nadia said, leading Valentina away. She did not ask Dante for permission, already determining this girl to be her own. "Let me show you the garden. And then we'll find you a bath and some proper clothes."

Dante watched them walk into the garden—Nadia bending to point out flowers, Valentina listening with concentration.

He felt nothing.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That evening, Dante stood at his window, watching the last light fade over the sea.

Below, in the garden, Nadia was showing Valentina how to tend the roses, her voice soft and patient.

Kazimir had joined them. He sat cross-legged on the stone path, watching Valentina with undisguised fascination. The girl was demonstrating, with great authority, the proper way to hold a trowel.

"You push like this," Valentina instructed, her small hands gripping the tool. "Not hard. Gotta be gentle with dwert."

"Like digging for treasure?" Kazimir asked.

"No, silly! Treaswre different. You gotta dig fast." She patted the soil. "Slow digging for 'rowing stuff."

Kazimir nodded solemnly, as if she had revealed a profound truth. He scooted closer to her on the path, his elbow touching hers.

Viktor sat on a stone bench nearby, his cane resting across his knees. A blanket draped over his legs against the evening chill. He watched the children with an expression Dante rarely saw on his face—something soft, almost peaceful.

Dante turned from the window. He walked to his desk, where a chessboard sat waiting. The pieces were arranged in their starting positions—a game not yet begun. He picked up the black queen and turned it over in his fingers.

The Zurich territories would be his. Not through inheritance but through control.

The girl would grow up in Volkov soil. Once she won Viktor and Nadia's recognition, she would become the ideal candidate to marry Kazimir. And through her, Dante could claim what he’d once been denied.

Valentina would be loyal. He had given her everything—safety, food, a future. She owed him her life, and she knew it. So far, she proved useful; she knew to stand on his side.

But if she ever forgot that debt? On Dante's board, even the most valuable pieces could be replaced.