The night was thick with silence not the peaceful kind, but the kind that breathes just before chaos. Crickets chirped in the distance, unaware of the violence about to unfold beneath the Florence stars.
The abandoned vineyard had once produced the finest reds in Tuscany. Now, it was nothing but a forgotten relic of legacy and rot. Beneath its crumbling cellars, buried under stone and secrets, lay one of the Romano Empire's most guarded assets — an arms depot loaded with enough firepower to fuel a war.
Amara Moretti stood atop a low hill overlooking the land, her coat flaring behind her like a banner of vengeance. She had received the intel three days earlier — a whisper from a dying spy, confirmed by satellite images and the gut instinct only bloodshed could sharpen.
Her order had been simple: No survivors. No hesitation. Burn everything.
At midnight, her men moved like shadows — no shouting, no grand entrances. Just smoke, fire, and the metallic smell of death. They flooded the underground vaults, planting charges with brutal precision. A single spark, and hell bloomed from the earth.
Flames devoured the vineyard like it had always been meant to burn. The heat kissed the heavens, casting a crimson glow across the Tuscan hills. Screams — few, faint, then nothing. Silence returned. But it was a different silence now. One that carried the weight of ash.
Amara didn't watch from safety.
She stood close enough to feel the heat lick her skin, her jaw clenched, her eyes unblinking. This wasn't just a tactical move.
It was personal.
By morning, Italian news outlets were screaming with headlines:
"Romano Empire Weakening — Naples Rises"
"Mafia Tensions Flare as Fire Claims Florence Depot"
"Anonymous Source Links Moretti Family to Attack"
The world tilted slightly, but Amara didn't smile. Instead, she whispered to the flames, low and cold, as if speaking to the ghosts that danced inside her chest:
"This is only the beginning."
Hundreds of kilometers away, in a dimly lit study within the Romano estate, Luca Romano stood still as stone.
The fire had reached him in more than headlines. His consigliere, Marco Bellini, brought the news before sunrise — eyes wary, voice calm.
"The Florence depot is gone. Total loss. No survivors."
Luca didn't scream. Didn't flip the polished mahogany desk or smash the decanter by his elbow.
He simply nodded.
Then turned toward a photo on the wall.
It was old — the colors fading, but the emotions still sharp. A photo from a forgotten era. Him. Amara. Her father. His father. Back when the Moretti and Romano names weren't dripping in blood. When they were family. When loyalty hadn't yet become a weapon.
The edges of his mouth twitched, but no smile came.
"She's winning," Marco said from behind him, breaking the silence.
"No," Luca replied, still staring at the photo. "She's burning. Winning is different."
Marco shifted, the weight of the war growing heavier each day. "You could stop this."
Luca turned. "With what?"
Marco met his gaze. "The truth."
That word hung in the room like smoke.
Luca didn't answer — not with words. Instead, he crossed the room to a locked drawer, pulled out a hidden folder, and set it on the desk with reverent dread.
Inside were pieces of a puzzle long buried — documents, photos, contracts signed in blood and betrayal. All tied to the deal that had led to Amara's mother's death. A deal his father made. A deal he'd known about. A deal he'd kept hidden.
"She won't understand," Luca murmured, fingers brushing over a faded image of a woman in a blue dress — Amara's mother, smiling.
Marco's voice softened. "She will. She's more like you than she knows."
That struck something in Luca not pain exactly, but the echo of it.
After a long silence, he nodded. A decision made, not in rage, but in weary clarity.
"Send her a message," he said. "No threats. Just this: Come alone. Tonight. The vineyard chapel. For answers."
Marco blinked, startled. "The old vineyard? The chapel's in ruins."
"So are we," Luca said quietly.
"You're risking everything."
Luca looked him dead in the eye. "I already lost her once. If I don't tell her now, I'll lose what's left of my soul too."
Amara read the message once. Twice. Ten times.
She was in her study, alone, the morning sun barely warming the stone floor. She hadn't slept. She didn't need to.
The words were clear. But it was the signature that shook her — not because it was threatening, but because it wasn't. Just Luca.
She felt rage first. The nerve of him. After everything, he dared summon her like this?
Then suspicion. A trap, maybe. A final play in the chess match they'd been locked in since the first bullet was fired.
But deeper still — beneath the fury, the fire, the pride — there was something else.
Curiosity.
Answers.
The one thing revenge had never been able to give her.
She told no one. Not Enzo. Not her guards. She slipped away with only her coat, a silenced pistol, and a heart full of ghosts.
The chapel was crumbling, swallowed by ivy and time. Its stained glass had long since shattered, but candlelight flickered inside like someone had tried to resurrect holiness.
Midnight struck as she stepped into the threshold.
And there he was.
Luca Romano.
Waiting.
Not with soldiers. Not with guns.
Just a folder in hand.
And eyes that hadn't stopped watching her, even when she became his enemy.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence said enough.
She took one slow step forward. "If this is a trap, it's a sloppy one."
"It's not," Luca said. His voice was steady. Honest. Too honest.
She looked around — empty pews, broken statues, flickers of old saints and forgotten promises.
"Why here?" she asked.
"Because this is where it started," he said. "This was our family's chapel. Where our fathers planned everything. Deals. Allegiances. Lies."
He handed her the folder. She didn't take it immediately. When she did, her fingers trembled.
Inside lay the truth.
About her mother's death.
About his silence.
About everything.
She read. Page by page. And with each line, something inside her cracked.
He hadn't killed her mother.
But he'd known who did.
And stayed silent to protect the empire his father built.
A silence that cost them everything.
When she looked up, her eyes were glossy. Not from weakness but from fury too deep to cry out loud.
"You were supposed to be my ally," she whispered. "My family."
"I know."
"You lied to me."
"I did."
She shook her head, stepping back like the chapel itself might collapse.
"Why now?" she asked, voice ragged. "Why show me this now?"
Luca didn't move. "Because you deserve the truth more than I deserve to keep it hidden."
Silence stretched again — painful, raw.
Finally, she lowered the folder.
"I should kill you," she said.
He didn't flinch.
"But I won't," she added, voice low and sharp. "Because killing you would be mercy. And mercy is something you no longer deserve."
She turned to leave.
Then paused.
"I want blood, Luca. You gave me paper. That's not balance. That's cowardice."
And just like that, she was gone.
Leaving Luca in the chapel, alone with the candles.
And the ghosts they both carri