The night wind howled against the stained-glass windows of Villa Moretti's private chapel, as if the building itself could sense the storm rising inside.
Amara sat alone on the altar steps, barefoot, dressed in nothing but black silk and vengeance.
She hadn't slept.
Not after what she'd done.
Not after the blood that now stained the marble floors of her father's office, blood that belonged to Gianni Russo, her godfather, her father's consigliere, and the man who had once taught her how to hold a blade steady with small, patient hands.
She had pulled the trigger herself. No hesitation. No tears.
But now that it was done, the silence roared. It echoed through the chapel like a judgment.
Above her, the statue of Saint Michael looked down, sword raised toward a demon cast in stone. She wondered what it would take to be redeemed if redemption was even something monsters like her deserved.
"You're starting to enjoy it," a voice said behind her.
She didn't have to turn.
Luca.
He moved like a shadow. Silent. Certain. She could feel the heat of him before she heard the steps. Her fingers twitched around the rosary she didn't believe in.
"And you're still breaking into my home like you own it," she murmured.
"Old habits."
He stepped closer, the echo of his boots filling the sacred room with something far less holy. He stopped just behind her, and the chapel filled with the weight of two people who once meant something more something dangerous.
"You killed him," Luca said quietly. "Gianni."
Amara looked up toward the stained-glass window.
"He betrayed me."
"He raised you."
"No," she said, rising to her feet. "My father raised me. Gianni taught me how to lie to my enemies. And somewhere along the way, he became one."
Luca's gaze was unreadable. "You could've had someone else do it."
"I don't send men to do what I need to live with," she said. "I looked him in the eye. And I watched him beg."
Silence stretched.
"He said your father had secrets," Luca said after a beat. "On all of us."
"He did," Amara whispered. "But that didn't give Gianni the right to sell my city."
"Your city," Luca echoed, stepping closer. His voice lowered. "You're building an empire out of bones and fury, Amara."
She turned, now facing him fully.
"It's the only material I was given."
Luca's eyes flicked down to the blood on her silk slip — a smear across her collarbone, faint but fresh. His jaw tightened. Whether it was from desire or disapproval, she didn't know.
"I can't protect you if you keep making enemies faster than I can kill them."
She raised her brow. "Who says I need protecting?"
Luca reached for her. She didn't move.
His hand brushed her cheek, fingers trailing the curve of her jaw with infuriating familiarity.
"You terrify me," he whispered.
"Good," she said, voice flat. "That means you're finally seeing me for what I am."
"And you still want me."
He didn't deny it.
They stood in the stillness of a thousand unsaid words. Of two broken legacies trying to make sense of their scars.
Then she said softly, "If I told you I needed you, would you stay?"
His hand stilled against her skin. The flicker of something unspoken passed through his eyes.
"I've never left."
Their lips collided — not soft, not tender. A war of tongues and teeth, fire and fury. Her fingers tangled in his jacket. His hands gripped her waist like he'd waited a lifetime. They kissed like murderers—hungry, ruthless, unafraid of sin.
When they finally broke apart, their breath came in shallow bursts.
"That was a mistake," she said, voice hoarse.
"You'll make it again," he replied, brushing her lips with his thumb.
An Hour Later – Amara's Study
Rain lashed the villa like bullets from the sky. Thunder growled over the cliffs.
Amara paced before the fireplace, dressed in a silk robe, hair damp, mind racing. Across from her, Enzo stood with a folder in hand and a face carved from granite.
"Here," he said, passing it to her. "All the financials Gianni tried to bury. Offshore accounts. Wire transfers from an Eastern bank tied to the Bratva. This is how he moved the money. And here—"
He flipped to the next page. Surveillance photos.
Gianni in a back alley. Meeting with Mikhail Sokolov. Handing over files. Pointing at a map.
Amara's stomach twisted.
"And this?" she asked, holding up the last photo.
"A contact from Palermo. Unknown. Possibly Albanian. We're still running it."
She threw the folder on the desk.
"He died too easily."
Enzo hesitated. "You think there's more?"
"I know there is," she said. "Gianni was arrogant, but not stupid. Someone gave him leverage. Someone made him believe he could outlive betrayal."
A pause. Then:
"Where's Luca?"
"Gone."
Amara's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, gone?"
"Left after you went upstairs. Didn't say where."
She turned toward the window, her own reflection staring back in the storm-lit glass.
"Track him."
"Do you trust him?" Enzo asked carefully.
She didn't answer.
She wasn't sure if she could.
Elsewhere – Secret Bratva Compound
In the shadows of an abandoned fortress outside Dubrovnik, Mikhail Sokolov leaned against a stone table, listening to the report.
"She killed Gianni herself," said the informant. "In her father's study."
Mikhail lit a cigar, the end glowing like a dying star.
"She's bolder than I thought."
A man in the corner laughed quietly. His face was hidden, voice thick with amusement. "She's becoming dangerous."
Mikhail exhaled smoke. "She's becoming her father."
"No," the other man corrected. "She's becoming worse."
Mikhail's lips curled. "Then we strike before she becomes untouchable."
"What of Romano?"
The man in the shadows stepped forward, face still cloaked in darkness.
"Let her fall in love with him."
Mikhail arched a brow. "Why?"
The smile that followed was slow, cruel.
"So we know exactly where to put the knife."
Back at Villa Moretti – Balcony, Just Before Dawn
The rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn't cleared.
Amara stood on the balcony, looking out over Naples. The city glowed beneath her — fierce, defiant, alive.
A queen on a throne made of knives.
She pressed two fingers to her lips where Luca had kissed her, then curled them into a fist.
Love was the oldest trap in the world.
And she had just stepped into it willingly.
But if she had to bleed to protect her empire, then so be it.
Let love be another battlefield.
She would win that one too.