Devil's Crown

They say when the end comes, one knows.

Yet Zara was still caught off guard.

Her foot pressed harder on the accelerator, each pound against the pedal a release for the storm inside her. A single stubborn tear betrayed her, blurring her vision before she forced it back with a furious blink.

The world snapped into focus—too late. The car had swerved off the road, tires screeching as she yanked the brake. The metal beast screamed in protest before shuddering to a halt on the pavement. Zara didn’t wait for silence. She shoved the door open and stomped out.

**Enchanted.**

That was what the sign above the three-story building read.

A security guard rushed forward, hand already brushing his pistol.

“Ma’am, you—”

It took just one look. Her look. He froze, his face draining of color as the truth sank in.

“Donna?” he whispered, voice trembling, hands twitching before he clasped them in front of him like a prayer.

Zara walked past him, keys dangling in her hand. If not for the chaos ripping through her chest, she might have thought he was only doing his job.

“Donna, I apologize,” he stammered, then dropped to his knees. Trembling. Begging.

She paused just long enough to register the fear pooling in his eyes—the same fear mirrored in the other guards pretending not to watch.

Begging. Always begging.

As if that ever saved anyone.

Would it save her, when the time came?

Before the thought could root, the doors swung open and Charles rushed out, disheveled, breathing heavy.

“Donna,” he greeted with a nervous bow.

“Spare him.” Her voice was flat, final. She moved past them both, leaving only relief in her wake.

Inside, the air was thick with bass and sweat. The hall pulsed with light and sound, bodies moving to rhythms Zara couldn’t hear. Faces flashed in neon, joy spilling out of every smile.

She stopped. For just a moment.

Her gaze caught on a girl with half-dyed hair, twirling from partner to partner, laughter breaking free without thought or fear.

Zara’s throat tightened.

She had never been that girl. Never allowed herself to be. She wasn’t carefree, wasn’t happy. She was the Donna of the Morano Empire—a queen without freedom, paying for sins she hadn’t even committed.

“Donna, let me escort you,” Charles murmured at her side, dragging her back.

She forced her feet to obey, step after step, while the weight of betrayal and exhaustion clung to her bones.

“I apologize for the ruckus. I didn’t know you’d be coming,” he said once they were halfway to the bar.

“Quit apologizing, Charles. Just get me a drink. And silence—send them out.”

His eyes widened at the command, but he didn’t argue. By the time she reached the bar, it was cleared, Charles nervously wiping down glasses like a makeshift bartender.

He slid her a bottle. “Beer. You’ll like it.”

She nodded and drank deep, no hesitation, no restraint. The burn was sharp, unrelenting. Perfect.

Charles tapped his foot, eyes darting toward the door, lips pressed in prayer.

“Silence, Charles,” she muttered, still staring at the bottle.

He swallowed, fingers fidgeting. “Donna… there’s a problem with the silence.”

Her gaze lifted, empty. “Speak.”

“This… party. It’s D’Amico’s.”

On the surface, nothing changed. But Charles saw it—the flicker, the shadow darkening her black eyes, the hand tightening around the glass.

“That’s fine,” she said at last, rising with her keys in one hand and the bottle in the other. Her free hand brushed against the cold steel of her gun. “I’ll leave.”

Every step was heavier than the last, her body screaming for rest. But weakness was something she couldn’t afford—not here. Not in her enemy’s house.

She was almost at the exit when a lapse in focus sent her colliding into someone. Her bottle wobbled in her grip; her keys clattered to the floor.

“Are you blind?” Zara snapped, lifting her gaze.

“Funny,” came the reply, low and sharp. A pair of dark, carved brows lifted in mockery. “That should be my question, Donna Morano. Are you blind?”

The air shifted, dangerous and thick.

Charles froze, horror flooding his face. This—this was the clash he had begged God to prevent.

Not here. Not now.

But it was too late.

Zara Valentina Morano, Donna of the Morano Empire—

face-to-face with Salvatore D’Amico, Don of the D’Amico Empire.