Extras Ch 6: Valentina - The Board Takes Shape

Extras Ch 6: Valentina - The Board Takes Shape

Kazimir was soft.

Viktor had said it years ago, and it was still true. Gentle and dreamy, more interested in his books and his drawings than in the family business. He trusted easily. He saw the best in people. When the servants gossiped, he didn't hear the malice beneath their words. When business associates visited, he didn't notice the way their eyes flickered with pity.

It made Valentina want to shake him.

But she had made a promise. To Nadia, who had knelt in the garden and looked at her. To Viktor, who had ruffled her hair. To herself, because she did not break her word.

So Valentina taught him.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The private school was a grey stone building perched on a hill above the town, filled with the children of privilege and power. These children had inherited their parents' sharpness but not their wisdom.

Valentina hated them on principle. But she also recognized their value. They were practice. A training ground. A place where Kazimir could learn the rules of survival without the stakes of life or death.

She started small.

"See that girl?" she murmured one afternoon, nodding toward a blonde girl who was holding court near the fountain. "What do you notice?"

Kazimir squinted. "She's... popular?"

"She's a shark." Valentina's voice was flat. "Watch her eyes. She's scanning the crowd, looking for weaknesses. She just smiled at the girl in the green coat, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. She's about to say something cruel. Something that will make others laugh."

Kazimir flinched. "That's awful."

"It's power," Valentina corrected. "She just reminded everyone why they should be afraid of her. So if she ever turns on you, you need to know how to deflect it."

"Why would she turn on me?"

"Because you're the Volkov heir. Because you're quiet and kind. People mistake kindness for weakness. One day, someone will want what you have." She turned to face him, her dark eyes serious. "You don't have to become cruel, Kaz. But you have to become strong. Strong enough that no one thinks you're an easy target."

They walked home that night and sat in the garden—Nadia's garden, though no one called it that anymore. The roses were still blooming, but the paths were less tidy now, the fountain silent. The new gardener did his best, but he didn't love the flowers the way Nadia had.

"Valentina?" Kazimir said, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"Do you think Dante is bad?"

She glanced at Kazimir and considered the question. Bad was a child's word, too simple for the reality of Dante Moretti. He was not bad like the men who had chased her through the streets of Milan or a monster who would hurt you for the pleasure of it. He was something more complicated—a man who believed he deserved everything and was willing to wait decades to get it.

"I think Dante wants something," she said finally. "And he doesn't care who gets hurt in the process."

Kazimir was quiet for a long time. Then: "What do we do?"

"We get stronger," Valentina said. "Until you're eighteen. That's when you inherit. That's when he has to either step aside or show his hand."

Three years. They had three years.

Kazimir straightened his shoulders. His jaw tightened. His grey eyes flickered with something that hadn't been there before—determination.

"Teach me everything you know," he said.

She smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Valentina taught Kazimir in layers. Through chess, she drilled into him the art of patience and long-game thinking. Through observation, she trained him to see what people meant rather than what they said. And through the brutal theater of Dante's dinner parties, she taught him the power of silence, the weapon of a well-timed question. Kazimir learned to smile without warmth, to nod without agreeing, to listen more than he spoke—and in doing so, he learned to stop being prey.

The servants began to whisper that the young master had changed. That there was something in his eyes now—a sharpness, a calculation—that reminded them of Viktor.

Valentina heard these whispers and felt a cold satisfaction.

He was not soft anymore. He was still kind—she had made sure of that—but he was no longer naive. He understood that the world was not fair or gentle, that power had to be taken, held, and defended.

He still loved his books and his drawings. But now he understood that those things were privileges, not rights. They had to be protected. And protection required strength.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The field trip was a tedious affair—a visit to a university in the city, where professors in tweed jackets talked about history, economics, and things the fifteen-year-old Valentina already understood. But Dante had insisted she attend, and Valentina had learned long ago that picking unnecessary battles was a waste of energy.

So she went. And during the lunch break, when her classmates scattered to buy overpriced coffee and flirt with university students, she wandered to a nearby library.

There, she found a strange man in a corner of the upper floor, tucked behind a stack of leather-bound volumes. He was young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three—with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that were utterly empty like he had burned through all his emotions.

He was reading a book on military strategy. His fingers moved across the pages with precise, unhurried movements.

Valentina recognized something in him immediately. The same thing she recognized in herself—a survivor.

"You're not a student," she said as she stood beside him.

He didn't startle. He didn't look up.

"Hey." She slid into the chair across from him. "What are you reading?"

He turned the book so she could see the cover. The Art of War.

"Light reading," she said dryly.

He finally looked up, and his dark eyes met hers without flinching. "You're the Volkov girl. The one Dante took in."

"Oh, you know me?"

"I've heard about you."

"Flattering things, I hope."

"No." His voice was flat, unapologetic. "Dangerous things."

Valentina smiled. She liked him already. "What's your name?"

"Leo Castellano."

Castellano—an old family, once powerful, now reduced to a single surviving son and a mountain of debts. There had been a scandal years ago, something about a rival family, a fire, and several convenient deaths. She couldn't remember the details now, but she remembered Dante mentioning it in passing.

"Castellano," she repeated. "Your family used to control the shipping routes through the southern ports."

A shadow flickered in Leo’s eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing. His fingers traced the edge of the book. "Now there's nothing left. The ports are controlled by the Ferrante family. My father and brothers are dead."

Valentina leaned back in her chair, studying him—the hunger beneath the flat exterior, the sharp intelligence that had nowhere to go.

He was exactly what she needed.

"What if I told you," she said slowly, "that I could help you get your ports back?"

"I'd say you don't have that kind of power."

"I don't. Not yet." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a murmur. "But I will. And when I do, I'll need people who can think like I do. People who understand strategy."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're reading military strategy, which means you're planning something."

Leo was silent. His face was still blank, but his hands had gone still on the book. "What do you want from me?"

"Your mind." She said it simply. "I'm building a team.”

"And where do I fit in?"

"You'll be the strategist."

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Leo's lips curved—not a smile. "Whose? The boy’s or yours?"

"His. I need someone who can protect Kaz when I'm not there."

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and wrote the address of the Volkov mansion. She slid it across the table.

"When Kazimir turns eighteen, he'll take control of the family business. Come to this address. I'll make sure you're expected."

Leo picked up the paper, his elegant fingers folding it carefully and tucking it into his jacket. "And if I don't come?"

"Then you'll spend the rest of your life reading about other people's wars instead of fighting your own." She stood, brushing dust from her skirt. "But you'll come. Men like you don't get second chances. You know that."

She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the library.

Behind her, Leo Castellano opened his book again. But he didn't read. He stared at the page, his dark eyes flickering.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The business trip came a few months before Valentina's seventeenth birthday.

Dante had been taking Kazimir on these trips more frequently now—ostensibly to teach him the family business. In truth, Valentina suspected Dante was testing the waters, gauging how much Kazimir knew, how much of a threat he would be when the time came.

She tagged along whenever she could. Dante indulged her presence.

The city was large, loud, and alive with neon lights. They attended meetings during the day. In the evenings, Dante took them to expensive restaurants.

On the third night, Dante had a private meeting. "Too dull for young ears," he said with that practiced smile. "Explore the city. Enjoy yourselves. Just be back by midnight."

Valentina waited until his car had disappeared around the corner. Then she turned to Kazimir.

"Come on," she said. "I want to show you something."

She took him to the streets. Not the polished avenues with their designer shops and gleaming restaurants, but the back alleys. Here, the neon was flickering and broken. The air smelled of stale grease and something sour. People huddled in doorways, wrapped in threadbare blankets, their eyes hollow and watchful.

Kazimir walked beside her, his shoulders tense. He was almost eighteen now—tall and broad-shouldered. But here, in the dark heart of the city, he looked young again. Uncertain.

"What is this place?" he asked quietly.

Valentina snorted, amused. "Why? Scared?"

She stopped in front of a doorway where a woman was huddled with a child—a girl, maybe three years old, with matted hair and hollow cheeks. The woman looked up at them with wariness. Valentina crouched down to the woman's level. She pulled a few bills from her pocket and pressed them into the woman's hand.

"For food," she said. "There's a shelter two blocks east. They won't ask questions."

The woman stared at the money, then at Valentina. Her eyes were wet. Valentina left without waiting for thanks.

"I lived on streets like these," she said to Kazimir as they moved deeper into the alley. "Before Dante found me. I was younger than that girl."

Kazimir was silent. She could feel his gaze on her face.

"I'm not telling you this for sympathy," Valentina said sharply. "I'm telling you so you understand. This is where I came from. This is what I was before the Volkovs. A street rat who bit first and never asked questions."

"You're not that anymore," Kazimir said quietly.

“Kaz.” She stopped walking and turned to face him. "When you take over the family business, what are you going to do with it?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I... I don't know. I haven't thought about it."

"Think about it now."

He was quiet for a long moment. The neon buzzed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared.

"I could help," he said finally. "Orphans. Children like you were. I could set up shelters and schools to give them a chance."

Valentina stared at him. Then she laughed, the sound echoing off the alley walls.

"That's very noble," she said. "Very kind. Very you."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No." She shook her head, still smiling. "It's just not what I meant. I didn't bring you here to make you feel guilty. I brought you here to show you what hunger looks like. What desperation looks like."

She stepped closer, her dark eyes fierce in the flickering neon.

"You want to help orphans? Fine. Do that. But that's not why I taught you. I taught you so that when you sit at the head of the table, you remember that the people at the bottom aren't chess pieces. They're people. And if you forget that—if you start treating them like Dante treats everyone—then everything I've done has been a waste."

Kazimir held her gaze. He didn't flinch or look away. "I won't forget," he said.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

She studied him for another moment. Then she nodded, satisfied.

"Good. Now let's find some real food. I'm tired of those fancy restaurants where everything tastes like butter."

He laughed. "Lead the way."

But they had taken only a few steps when the sound cracked through the night like a gunshot—the heavy thud of fists on flesh, followed by the ugly crunch of a body hitting concrete.

Valentina stopped mid-step, her hand flying out to grip Kazimir's arm. The noise came from a back alley just ahead—a narrow passage lined with dumpsters and sagging fire escapes. She could hear voices now, low and cruel, punctuated by grunts of pain.

"Stay behind me," Kazimir murmured, already moving toward the sound.

She almost laughed. Years ago, she had been the one protecting him. Now he was tall, broad-shouldered, and trained in three forms of combat. Now he thought he could shield her from danger.

Valentina let him. It was good for his ego.

They rounded the corner and found four men surrounding a single figure on the ground. The figure was trying to fight back, but four against one was impossible odds.

Kazimir didn't hesitate. He waded into the fray. The first man went down with a blow to the kidney. The second caught an elbow to the throat. The third and fourth turned to face this new threat, their faces twisting with rage—

And then Valentina watched as the man on the ground surged upward, blood streaming from a split lip, and tackled one of the remaining attackers with a snarl of pure fury.

It was over in moments. The four men fled into the darkness, nursing their wounds and shouting threats. Kazimir stood breathing hard in the center of the alley, his knuckles scraped and bloody.

And the man on the ground—the boy, really, he couldn't have been older than seventeen—pushed himself up on his elbows and glared at them with his blue eyes.

He was beautiful. Even bruised, bloodied, and covered in alley filth, it was the first thing Valentina noticed. Blonde hair, fine features, cheekbones that could have been carved by a Renaissance sculptor. A pretty boy, she thought, the kind that turned heads on the street and attracted the wrong kind of attention.

"What the hell," the boy panted, "was that?"

"A rescue," Valentina said. "You're welcome."

"I had it handled."

"You were getting your face beaten in."

"I was winning."

Valentina snorted. "Sure you were, pretty boy."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me that."

"Then don't look like that." She stepped closer, studying him. "What's your name?"

He hesitated, clearly weighing whether to answer. "Nikolai."

"Nikolai what?"

"Just Nikolai."

"Alright, ‘Just Nikolai.’" She circled him slowly, noting the way he tracked her movement, the way his hands curled into fists despite his injuries. "You took on four men who were bigger than you. You lost, but you didn't run. Why?"

"Because I don't run." He spat blood onto the concrete. "Ever."

Valentina smiled. She liked him. "Your moves were pretty good. Sloppy, but good. You've had some training."

"My father was a boxer."

"Was?"

"He's dead."

"Of course he is." She stopped circling and stood in front of him, her arms crossed. "What were they after? Money?"

Nikolai's jaw tightened. "They thought I was someone else."

"And you didn't bother explaining?"

"Explaining doesn't work with men like that. Fighting does."

Valentina laughed. She looked at Kazimir, who was watching the exchange with a bemused expression.

"What do you think?" she asked him.

Kazimir shrugged. "He's got guts. I'll give him that."

"More than guts." She turned back to Nikolai. "You're coming with us."

The boy's eyes widened. "What? No way!"

"Listen, pretty boy. You're injured and alone. Those men will probably come back with friends soon. So either come with us voluntarily or he can carry you. Your choice."

Nikolai looked at Kazimir—tall, broad, clearly capable of making good on the threat—and then back at Valentina. "Who are you people?"

"Friends," Valentina said with a smirk. "The kind you don't refuse."

After half-an-hour, Nikolai was still suspicious, still jumpy.

So Valentina did what she always did when she needed someone to trust her: She made them feel like they had a choice.

They wandered the nearby streets for hours. They ate stall food—skewers of grilled meat, fried dough, and sweet pastries. They played street games where the prizes were cheap trinkets.

Nikolai won a stuffed bear at a ring toss and stared at it, baffled.

"Keep it," Valentina said. "A trophy."

"It's a teddy bear."

"A trophy," she repeated, "for not dying."

He snorted, but he tucked the bear into his jacket.

By the time they reached the chess tables—a row of battered boards set up near a fountain—Nikolai had relaxed enough to stop looking for escape.

Valentina slid into a chair and gestured for him to sit across from her.

"One game," she said. "If I win, you come home with us. If you win..."

"You'll let me go?"

"If you win, you can set the terms." She smiled, sharp and confident. "Anything you want."

Nikolai studied her. The blood had dried on his lip, and one of his eyes was starting to swell, but his gaze was steady. Calculating.

"You're serious."

"I'm always serious."

He sat. "I'm good at this game."

"Good." Valentina began setting up the board. "I'd hate for it to be boring."

She played white. He played black. The first few moves were standard, conservative—both of them feeling each other out. Then Nikolai made an aggressive play with his rook, and Valentina smiled.

There you are.

The game was good. Better than good. Nikolai played with a boldness that bordered on reckless, sacrificing pieces to gain position, always pressing forward, always looking for the offensive. It was the opposite of how Dante played—Dante was cold and methodical. Nikolai was fire.

But fire could be contained. Redirected. Used.

Valentina let him push. She let him think he was winning. And then, in the endgame, she sprung her trap.

Her knight, which had been lurking in the corner for half the game, swept across the board and took his queen.

Nikolai stared at the board. His mouth opened, then closed.

"Checkmate," Valentina said.

"You—" He looked up at her, his blue eyes wide. "How did you—the knight—I didn't even see it—"

"The knight is unpredictable," Valentina said, leaning back in her chair. "It moves in ways no other piece can." She smiled, slow and satisfied. "If you know how to use it, it can turn a losing game into a winning one."

Nikolai was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed—surprised, almost reluctant. "I walked right into it."

"Yes, you did," Valentina agreed.

He looked at her now not with fear or suspicion, but with respect. "You're not just some rich girl slumming for the night, are you?"

"Does that matter?” She stood and held out her hand. "You made a deal, pretty boy. You lost. Now you come with us."

Nikolai looked at her hand. Then at Kazimir, who had been watching the game in silence. Then back at the chessboard, where his king was still trapped.

He took her hand. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're terrifying."

"Yes, I know," Valentina said. "It's my best quality."