He inhaled deeply. “Comatose. Five years. Someone tried to kill me. My enemies knew about your mother… and used her to distract me. I sent her away to keep her safe. I never got to tell her everything. When I woke up, I had no memory. I forgot her, Geneva. I forgot you.”
I didn’t answer right away. I looked at the stars instead. Then I whispered, “She raised me alone. She left stripping. Worked three jobs. Never let me sleep hungry. She died with nothing but my hand in hers.”
His eyes glistened, but he didn’t cry. “And I owe her a debt that no man can repay. I will carry that shame to my grave. But you… you don’t have to carry her pain anymore.”
I clenched the wineglass tighter. “I lost my son. They killed him to break me. I was too late. I couldn’t protect him.”
He turned toward me sharply. “You are not weak. They used your love against you. But from this day forward, you will not be hunted. You will not be outnumbered. You will not run.”
I swallowed. “What am I supposed to do then?”
He leaned closer. “You prepare. The Salvacions took your peace. They buried your son. And now they think you’re gone. You are not gone, hija. You are Montenegro. And Montenegros do not fal quietly.”
I felt the weight of those words like a second heartbeat.
I wasn’t just someone’s discarded wife anymore. I was the daughter of a king. And one day, I‘ make them all kneel for what they did to me and to my son.
After I came here in Spain, father didn’t announce who I was to anyone. He simply said I was family and that was enough to make everyone bow.
Only his inner circle knew the truth–his most trusted men, the ones who would die at a snap
if
he ordered it. Everyone else didn’t dare ask. They saw the way he looked at me. The way his sons walked beside me. And they knew. I wasn’t just someone. I was something dangerous ir the making.
I slept the first few nights like a guest in someone else’s skin. My name had changed. My blood was the same. But everything I thought I was–wife, mother, woman–had bled into the floor of that hospital room where I nearly died.
I didn’t cry in front of anyone. Not even Elle. Only when I locked the door and sat by the window did I let the tears come. Quiet, sharp, honest tears. I missed Eli. I missed the way he used to call me “Captain Mama” when I used to pull him away from danger. I missed hearing him laugh. And I hated myself for not saving him.
Father never pressured me. But he watched. Always watching.
He assigned Elle her own wing and a team of guards and a therapist who had clearance levels higher than a prime minister. She started school in a private compound that trained diplomats‘ kids and mafia bloodlines. She cried sometimes. I saw her holding Eli’s photo, whispering his name. I didn’t interrupt. I let her grieve in her own way.
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I let my grief burn me clean.
When I was ready, they gave me my new identity. Geneva Villacruz Montenegro. No more Salvacion. No more chains. No more Niccolo.
That’s when the training began.
Michael, my older half–brother, was the one who talked less but saw everything. He was sharp, calculated, ruthless with his logic. On our first day, he looked at me with no softness at all.
“If you want to survive, you listen. You speak only when needed. You learn how to win deals with silence, not tears.”
I didn’t flinch. I nodded.
He handed me documents thicker than the Bible. Corporate contracts, shell company structures, legal blackmail strategies, and how to destroy someone in court without touching a gun. He trained me how to talk to CEOs and senators and smile while cornering them into a deal.
“Geneva,” he said after a week, “you’re not weak. You were just playing house with a man whc fed on your softness. You want revenge? Build a kingdom so big, he won’t know where to start burning it.”
Niko, the younger one, was all action. Charming, cocky, but every shot he fired hit its mark. He handled the underworld contacts, weapons shipments, and elimination jobs.
He took me to the training grounds and tossed a gun to me.
“No princess drills here,” he said. “This ain’t some woman’s self–defense class. You’ll learn how to disarm a man, slit his throat, shoot between his eyes, and walk away with clean hands. You okay with that?”
“I’m not here to feel okay,” I told him. “I’m here to never be helpless again.”
He grinned. “That’s my sister.”
We trained every morning. Guns. Knives. Physical combat. I bled, bruised, fell flat. But I never complained.
One night, father called me to the patio overlooking the vineyards. He was sitting in his usual chair, glass of red in his hand. The air was cold. His voice colder.
‘I didn’t lose you again just to see you broken.”
‘I’m not broken,” I said quietly. “Not anymore.”
He looked at me. Long. Deep.
‘I’m not building a princess. I’m restoring a queen. One who knows how to pull the trigger and walk away. You understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
Because I did. I wasn’t Geneva Salvacion anymore.
I was Geneva Montenegro.
And the next time Niccolo saw me… he wouldn’t even recognize the woman walking toward him.
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