The SUV cuts through the night like a blade dipped in shadow. You sit in the front passenger seat, back straight, jaw tight — the perfect image of a mafia queen holding together her patience with sheer will.

Behind you, curled into the leather seat with mascara-smudged eyes and trembling fingers, is your 15-year-old daughter:

Aurelia Isabella Romano. Smart. Beautiful. Chaotic. A cluster of fireworks disguised as a teenage girl.

And she went to a party. A party she was explicitly forbidden to attend. A party with zero guards, zero permission, and zero survival instinct considering who her father is.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Fifteen-year-olds are dramatic enough — adding your words would make the SUV explode.

Up ahead, the Romano estate rises like a kingdom carved into the mountainside. Gold lights. Black marble. Endless steps. Guards forming columns on both sides. Even the fountains look judgmental tonight.

The moment the tires crunch into the courtyard, the front doors open.

Out steps the King of the Underworld himself:

Domenico Romano. Your husband. The richest man on the planet. Cold. Ruthless. Sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. The kind of man who has presidents on speed-dial and enemies who don’t sleep.

Tonight, his expression is pure steel.

And beside him stands your oldest child:

Lorenzo Romano, 21, the heir. Tall. Sharp-jawed. Tattooed. A calmer, younger clone of his father. His hands are in his pockets, but his eyes are smirking — oh, he’s been WAITING for this.

You step out first. The courtyard practically bows to your presence — guards nodding, servants backing away. Because you’re not just the mother. You are La Regina del Sangue — the Blood Queen of the Romano empire.

You open the back door.

Aurelia steps out slowly.

She looks fifteen — caught, frightened, trying to stand tall but wobbling. Her glittery dress is wrinkled, her curls messy, her lip gloss smeared. She clutches her little purse like it’s a shield.

Domenico’s jaw twitches.

That alone makes every guard in the courtyard pray silently.

He speaks, voice low and deadly:

“Aurelia. Isabella. Romano.”

She freezes. She knows the rule: Three names = you have unlocked HELL MODE in your father.

You guide her forward with a light touch on her back.

Lorenzo leans toward his sister as she passes him and whispers with devilish delight, “You’re so dead.”

She shoots him a panicked glare.

Domenico descends one marble step, his eyes locked on hers with terrifying precision.

“You left this house,” he says, each word sharp, “alone. At night. With no guards. As if you are not my daughter. As if I do not have enemies who would tear down nations to get to you.”

Aurelia swallows hard. She’s fifteen — stubborn, emotional, way too brave and way too naive.

“M-Mamma came to get me,” she whispers.

“I know,” Domenico replies. “Your mother saved your life tonight.”

You step beside him — the only force capable of softening his wrath.

“Domenico,” you say calmly, authority sliding into your voice like silk over steel. “She is young. Reckless, yes. But she is home. With us.”

He turns to you — and for a moment, his eyes thaw just slightly. Only for you.

Then he looks back at his daughter, expression carved from ice.

“You will not leave this gate without protection again,” he says, voice like thunder controlled. “You are a child. My child. And I will not bury you because you wanted to dance.”

Aurelia’s chin wobbles. She’s not crying — not yet — but the tears are standing guard in her eyes.

Lorenzo steps behind her, his hand firm on her shoulder.

“Inside,” Domenico orders.

Aurelia flinches. Lorenzo smirks. You let out a slow exhale.

And the Romano family walks into the mansion — the King leading, the Queen steady behind him, the heir dragging the troublemaker gently but mercilessly.

Tonight will be a long night.

And for Aurelia? It’s only just begun.