Extras Ch 5: Valentina - A Queen Does Not Kneel

Extras Ch 5: Valentina - A Queen Does Not Kneel

The trip with Dante came several months later.

By then, Valentina had grown almost two inches. Her clothes—the simple dresses Nadia had found for her—were beginning to pull at the seams. Dante noticed, as he noticed everything, and announced one morning that he would take her into the nearby town to buy new ones.

"Just the two of us," he said, smiling down at her. "A father-daughter outing."

Valentina nodded, keeping her expression neutral. She knew Dante had not brought her to the Volkov mansion out of the goodness of his heart. Whatever he wanted from her, he had not yet named it.

But she was curious. And this trip—just the two of them, away from the watchful eyes of the mansion—would be the first real chance she had to ask.

The town was small and quiet, perched on the coast like a seabird resting its wings. Dante took her to a tailor's shop, where a brisk woman clucked over Valentina's too-short sleeves and fraying hems.

"She's growing fast," the woman observed.

"She is," Dante agreed. "Well-fed children do."

Valentina submitted to the measuring, the pinning, and the endless discussion of fabrics. But her mind was elsewhere. She was planning her approach.

After the shop, Dante bought her a pastry from a bakery—flaky and sweet and nothing like the stolen bread of Milan. They sat on a bench overlooking the sea, the salt wind tugging at their hair.

Valentina ate her pastry slowly, savoring it. Then she set the empty wrapper aside, turned to Dante, and spoke.

"What do you want from me?"

Her grammar was perfect now. Her accent was gone. She sounded like a Volkov.

Dante's eyebrows rose. He had been in the middle of taking a bite of his own pastry. He lowered it, studying her with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"That's a direct question," he said.

"I'm a direct person."

A smile tugged at his lips—not the warm, practiced smile he wore in public, but something smaller and more genuine. "Yes. You are."

He set his pastry aside and leaned back on the bench, his gaze moving to the grey horizon. For a long moment, he was silent.

"You're clever," he said finally. "Cleverer than most adults I know. So I won't insult you by pretending I brought you to the mansion out of charity."

Valentina waited.

"I want you to help me take something from the Volkovs," Dante said. "Something that should have been mine a long time ago."

"What?"

"It's too early to tell you that." He turned to look at her, his expression calm. "You're still young. You're still learning the family's rhythms. When you're older—when you understand more—I'll explain everything. For now..." He paused. "For now, just keep them entertained."

Valentina processed this. She was not surprised—she had known, in her bones, that Dante wanted something. The confirmation was a relief. At least now she understood the shape of the game.

But she did not intend to be a blind piece on anyone's board. Even if she agreed to help him, she would do it on her terms.

"Fine," she said. "But I have rules."

Dante's eyebrows rose again. "Do you?"

"You don't lie to me." Her voice was flat and hard. "Ever. Whatever you're planning, whatever you want from me—you tell me the truth. I'll do what you ask, but I won't be lied to."

"And if I do lie?"

She met his eyes. "Then I bite."

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and rough. "I believe you would."

"I would."

He shook his head, still smiling. "Fair enough. I won't lie to you, Valentina. Not about the important things. You have my word."

She didn't trust his word. But she trusted his pragmatism—he needed her and lying to her would be counterproductive.

"What else?" he asked. "You said 'rules.' Plural."

She thought about it. "I'm not calling them by their names."

"Who?"

"The old woman. The old man." A dismissive wave of her hand. "That boy."

Dante blinked. Then he laughed again, longer this time. "You still call Viktor 'the old man'?"

"He is old."

"He's our host. Our benefactor. You should show respect."

"I show respect by keeping them entertained," Valentina said flatly. "You said that's what you want. I don't have to use their names to do it."

Dante shook his head, still chuckling. "Fine. Call them what you like in private. But in front of others, you'll call them by their proper titles. Understood?"

"Fine."

"And me?" he asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. "What do you call me?"

Valentina considered this. Dante was the one who had pulled her from the streets. He was the one who fed her, clothed her, and gave her a room with a real bed. He was also the one who wanted to use her as a pawn in whatever game he was playing. He was not her father. He was not her savior. He was something in between.

"Can I call you Dante?" she asked. "When it's just us?"

Something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something softer. "You want to?"

"It's your name."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled. "Yes. When it's just us, you can call me Dante."

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She nodded. "Good."

"But in public—"

"In public, you're 'Father.' I know."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached over and patted her shoulder, the way he had on the day they met.

"You are a very strange child," he said.

"I'm not a child," Valentina corrected. "I'm a survivor."

His hand stilled. His expression flickered. "Yes," he said softly. "You are."

They sat in silence after that, watching the sea churn against the cliffs. The wind was cold and sharp, tasting of salt and distant storms. Valentina pulled her too-small coat tighter around her shoulders and thought about what Dante had said—and what he hadn't.

Something that should have been mine.

What is it? The family's shipping empire? Power itself? She didn't know. But she would find out. And when she did, she would decide whether to help him—or whether to make her own move.

She was a piece on his board. She knew that.

But pieces could become players, if they were clever enough.

And Valentina was very, very clever.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Valentina was eight years old when she understood that Nadia Volkov was dying.

It started slowly. Nadia began to forget things. Small things, at first—where she had left her gloves, the name of a flower she had known her whole life. She would pause in the middle of a sentence, her brow furrowing, and then shake her head with a soft laugh.

"Silly me. I'm getting old, little one."

Valentina did not think it was silly.

She watched Nadia with the same fierce attention she had once used to watch tourists' pockets in Milan. She noticed the way Nadia's hands trembled when she poured tea. The way she startled at sudden noises. The way she would sometimes stare at nothing, her lips moving silently, her emerald eyes wide and wet.

The garden was the only place that seemed to bring Nadia peace. She spent hours there, kneeling among the roses, her silver-threaded hair falling loose from its pins. Valentina often joined her, watching the old woman's hands move through the soil with the muscle memory of decades.

One afternoon, Nadia paused mid-prune and looked at Valentina with a strange, distant expression.

"You remind me of myself," she said. "When I was young."

Valentina didn't know what to say to that. She and Nadia were nothing alike—Nadia was soft where Valentina was sharp, gentle where Valentina was fierce. But perhaps Nadia saw something Valentina couldn't yet see. A fire. A will. A refusal to be crushed.

"You're stronger than I was," Nadia continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Don't let them take that from you."

"Who?"

But Nadia had already turned back to the roses, her eyes cloudy and unfocused. She didn't answer.

One night, Valentina crept into Nadia's room after a nightmare—she still had them, dreams of Milan and her mother's cold body. She found Nadia sitting up in bed, clutching the blankets to her chest, her face pale as bone.

"I see him," Nadia whispered. "In the shadows. I see his eyes."

"Whose eyes?" Valentina climbed onto the bed and took Nadia’s cold hands.

"Dante's." The name came out like a curse, like a confession. "He's always watching. Always waiting. He wants what's mine. He's always wanted it."

Valentina said nothing. She held Nadia's hand until the old woman's breathing slowed and she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Then Valentina laid awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Dante.

She had not seen him in weeks. He was always busy now—meetings with Viktor, trips to the city, hours locked in the study with ledgers and papers. He moved through the house like a shadow, his dark eyes passing over her without pausing to speak.

She had been grateful to him, once. He had lifted her from the streets and given her this life.

But gratitude was a thin thread, and it was fraying.

He wants what's mine, Nadia had said.

Valentina did not know what that meant. But she filed it away, like a coin hidden in her palm.

She thought, too, about what she had observed over the years—the way Dante seemed to orbit Viktor's approval, always seeking the old man's acknowledgment, his respect. Dante wanted Viktor to see him as a son. That much was obvious.

But Nadia... Dante did not seek Nadia's approval. He did not try to earn her love. Instead, he seemed to take a quiet, almost cruel pleasure in needling her—the pointed comments disguised as courtesy, the lingering glances that made her flinch, the way he moved through Nadia's garden like he had a right to be there.

If you truly don't care about someone, Valentina thought, you wouldn't go out of your way to annoy them.

Dante cared about Nadia. Not in the way a son should care for a mother—not with love or tenderness or gratitude. But he cared. He noticed her. He reacted to her. Her existence was a splinter under his skin, and he could not leave it alone.

Valentina did not know what had happened between them. But she knew, with the cold certainty that had kept her alive in Milan, that it was important.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Nadia died on a Tuesday.

The funeral was small. Only family. Kazimir cried, his soft face crumpled with grief he did not fully understand. Viktor stood like a statue, his grey eyes distant, his jaw tight.

But Dante stood at the edge of the ceremony, his face smooth and unreadable.

Valentina watched him.

She watched him through the whole service. She studied him during the burial, when Nadia's coffin was lowered into the ground beside the roses she had loved. She observed him during the reception, when people in dark clothes murmured condolences and ate sandwiches.

He did not look sad. He did not look relieved. He looked like he was waiting for something.

Valentina began to wonder.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Viktor died a year later.

His death was not a surprise. He had been fading for months due to heart failure, his sharp grey eyes growing dimmer, his movements slower. Kazimir spent hours at his bedside, reading to him from books Viktor no longer had the strength to hold.

Valentina remembered the way Viktor had looked at Dante in those final months. The pride and understanding that had once softened his weathered face were gone. What replaced them was something quieter, edged with caution—as if Viktor had finally begun to notice what he'd overlooked for years.

She remembered a conversation she had overheard, standing in the shadows of the corridor outside Viktor's study.

Dante's voice, calm and measured: "The Zurich properties remain separate?"

Viktor's voice, weaker than it used to be: "They belong to Kazimir now. Nadia wanted it that way."

A pause. Then Dante: "Of course. I understand."

Valentina had heard that cadence before. It was the way Dante talked when he was lying.

And now Viktor was dead. And Dante moved through the house with a new authority, his hands already reaching for the levers of power.

Valentina was nine years old. But she was not stupid.

She could add. Two deaths. Two people who stood between Dante and something he wanted—something Nadia had guarded, something Viktor had protected.

She didn't think Dante had killed Nadia or Viktor himself. Dante was too clever for that—too careful with his hands. He never left marks. He never gave you anything you could point to.

But he had a way of being present at the edges of misfortune. Of benefiting from losses he never had to cause. Nadia's mind had crumbled under the weight of old fears, and Viktor's heart had given out under the strain of a long illness—and Valentina knew that Dante's shadow had fallen across them both. He hadn't pushed them into the grave, but he had stood at its edge and watched them fall without once reaching out a hand.

That was the difference with Dante. He didn't kill. He simply made sure he was the last one standing when everyone else was too exhausted to fight.

So no, he hadn't killed them. But he was the reason they died afraid. And when Viktor's eyes closed for the final time, it was Dante's hands that caught the reins of the Volkov empire.

That night, Valentina stood at her window, watching the last light fade over the sea. Below, in the garden, the roses were blooming—red and white and pale pink, just as Nadia had planted them decades ago. The garden was empty now. No one knelt among the flowers. No one wore emerald silk.

Kazimir was somewhere in the house, probably crying. He was ten years old and an orphan now, just like her. But unlike her, he had never learned how to survive loss. He was still soft. Still gentle. Still too good for a world that would chew him up and spit him out.

She had made a promise to Viktor and Nadia. She had told them she would protect him.

And Valentina kept her promises.

I will take care of the stupid boy, she thought, pressing her palm against the cold glass. I will keep him safe. I will teach him how to survive. And when Dante makes his move—when the game finally begins—I will be ready.

She did not know what Dante wanted. She did not know what role he intended her to play. But she knew this: she was not a pawn.

She was a queen in waiting.

And a queen, even a young one—even one who had been plucked from the gutters of Milan—a queen does not stay on her knees forever.