Novels by Nana A

The city of Palermo wore its scars like medals—proof of survival, testimony of war. The Falcone estate, once charred and silent, now stood rebuilt in marble and steel. Stronger. Harsher. A monument not to tradition, but to transformation. Inside, under the high vaulted ceilings of the grand hall, Camilla Falcone walked toward her destiny. She wore no crown, no jewels—just a sleek black suit, tailored like armor, and a presence that commanded silence. Every seat was filled. Heads of syndicates. Underworld kings. Government ghosts. Even Veronica, now at the helm of the Italian arms operation, stood tall beside Luca. Reza and Aurora flanked her like sentinels. At the far end of the room, Riccardo waited, his suit midnight-black, his eyes fixed on Camilla with a quiet reverence. The storm between them had settled, leaving only steel trust and silent understanding. She stopped at the center of the room. “Are you ready?” Aurora asked from the side. Camilla took a breath. “I was born

The first sunrise after victory should have brought peace. Instead, it brought fire. Camilla was still in the Berlin safehouse when the message came through—encrypted, fragmented, and wrapped in a digital cloak only Aurora could peel back. The red alert flare in Aurora’s voice was unmistakable. “They hit Palermo,” Aurora whispered. “The estate… it’s gone.” Camilla’s stomach dropped. “Casualties?” “Minimal. Veronica had moved most of the household two nights ago, just in case. But the message was clear. They waited until you secured the syndicate.” Riccardo’s jaw clenched. He was already on his feet, grabbing his coat and keys. “Who?” Camilla asked. Aurora hesitated. “You won’t believe it.” Camilla’s eyes narrowed. “Try me.” “The Black Key. The splinter faction Cassian once disavowed. They’ve gone rogue. And they’ve formed an alliance—with Dagonet.” Riccardo’s expression darkened. “That bastard survived?” Aurora nodded. “Worse. He’s leading what’s left of the anti-Falcone l

Berlin was cold in a way that crept into your bones. The kind of cold that reminded Camilla of her childhood—of concrete walls, broken promises, and the quiet determination of someone who had no one but herself. She stared at her reflection in the hotel mirror, hardly recognizing the woman in front of her. Gone was Camilla Falcone, the notorious queen of Italy’s underworld. In her place stood “Elisabeth Weiss,” a carefully constructed identity, forged in weeks of cyber infiltration and covert artistry. Aurora had overseen every detail—from the forged passports to the Austrian accent that slipped so easily off Camilla’s tongue now. Her backstory was clean. Her financials, credible. Even her connections had been fabricated with the help of Reza’s global network. Still, she didn’t need fake papers to command power. Camilla adjusted the pin on her lapel—an innocuous piece of jewelry that doubled as a mic and a tracker—and turned to Riccardo. He stood at the edge of the room, arms cro

The sun rose slowly over the Falcone estate, bleeding gold through the cracked clouds. But there was no peace in the warmth. Not yet. Camilla stood in the war room, eyes fixed on the wall of screens detailing Cassian’s connections. What began as a revenge plot had revealed something far more insidious: a hidden syndicate, fractured but alive, embedded in systems far beyond Cassian Vale. He hadn’t been the head of the serpent—only a fang. Riccardo entered, dressed in black, his voice gravelled from the smoke of the night before. “The men are ready. Say the word, and we hit their holdings in Milan, Paris, and São Paulo.” Camilla didn’t turn around. “Too easy. We strike too hard now, we scare them into hiding. No. I want the heads.” Riccardo moved closer. “Then we need bait.” She finally looked at him. “We already have it.” Reza Talhoun arrived at noon, dressed like a diplomat, eyes like a warlord. He’d brought the final puzzle piece with him—a dossier compiled by Mossad detailing

The storm didn’t break in thunder—it came in silence. The estate’s perimeter alarms buzzed softly, just enough to alert those attuned to the undercurrent of danger. Inside, Camilla was in the study with Leo, helping him with a puzzle. His brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth. She smiled faintly—such innocence, such peace. A knock at the door. “Camilla,” Aurora called, her voice clipped, urgent. Camilla stood, a quiet shift in her posture. She opened the door to find Aurora holding her tablet out, a satellite feed flickering to life. Several black SUVs had pulled off a side road not far from the estate—too far to trigger external defense, too close for coincidence. “They’re not moving,” Aurora said. “Just sitting.” “Waiting,” Camilla murmured. “He’s here.” Aurora glanced toward the hallway where Leo was now humming to himself. “You want me to move him to the bunker?” Camilla hesitated. “No. We do this differently.” Down in the security win

The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting a warm, deceptive glow across the Falcone estate. Peace, for all its glory, was fleeting. And Camilla knew better than to trust the quiet. She stood on the balcony outside her suite, dressed in black slacks and a silk blouse, sipping espresso as her eyes scanned the horizon. The city had returned to motion—but beneath its surface, shadows stirred. Behind her, Riccardo emerged, his shirt half-buttoned, tie slung loosely around his neck. “You didn’t sleep,” he said, not as a question but a quiet statement of fact. She didn’t deny it. “Something’s coming.” “Trouble?” “Opportunity wearing a mask.” He stepped beside her, following her gaze toward the eastern industrial district. “You think they’re regrouping?” “I don’t think,” she replied. “I know.” Downstairs, the war room was alive with tension. Enzo, Aurora, and a few trusted lieutenants were already seated. The map had been updated. Red circles marked unusual activity i

Lucien The city never really slept, but from the 47th floor of Wolfe Holdings, it at least seemed like it did. Manhattan’s lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my private office—cold, clean, distant. The kind of view meant to inspire power. Tonight, it felt like a war map. I stood with my back to the room, fingers clutched around a glass of bourbon I hadn’t touched. My mind wasn’t on the deal closing in Tokyo or the last-minute shakeup on the board after my announcement about Isla and Leo. It was on the message she forwarded. Damon’s threat. It hadn’t been vague. It hadn’t been cautious. It had been direct and deliberate. “You think he can protect you now? He’s just a distraction. I’m coming for what’s mine.” Mine. The audacity of it made my jaw tighten, my fingers curl around the glass until the cut crystal left an imprint in my palm. I hadn’t wanted to go nuclear. I’d hoped that by stepping into the light with Isla and Leo, Damon would back off—understandi

Isla The scent of Lucien’s cologne lingered long after he left—a blend of spice and midnight, comfort and danger. I stood by the window in my apartment, arms wrapped around myself, watching the city lights shimmer in the darkness like a million secrets just waiting to be exposed. Behind me, Leo was asleep, his small frame cocooned in the covers, Lucien’s tiger plushie clutched tightly in his arms. I should have felt safe. I should have felt comforted. But all I felt was the low thrum of dread under my skin. Damon had been at Leo’s school. Not even subtle about it. Just… present. Watching. Reminding me that he still could. I exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the windowsill. I hadn’t expected Lucien to come tonight. Not after the day we’d had. The press storm, the boardroom meetings I wasn’t part of but could feel the ripple effects of, the eyes everywhere now watching me—not just because I was once the billionaire’s mistress, but because I was the woman he’d chosen to claim pu

Lucien The boardroom of Wolfe International was the height of glass and steel elegance, perched atop the sixty-first floor like a throne room built for war. I stood at the head of the long obsidian table, staring out at the skyline of Paris bathed in the glow of a late afternoon sun. My reflection in the glass was sharp, composed, impenetrable. But beneath the tailored suit and cufflinks, tension simmered. “Your press conference changed the game, Lucien,” Soraya said from her seat beside me, tapping a crimson fingernail against a tablet. “The public is on your side now. You’ve rebranded yourself overnight—from ruthless billionaire to protective father. Women are swooning. Men are backing off. The sympathy factor? Off the charts.” “It wasn’t for the public,” I muttered, though I knew it played both ways. “It was for Leo. For Isla.” I turned from the window and took my seat, steepling my fingers as the rest of the team filed in. Attorneys. PR strategists. My private investigator. Ev

Isla The echo of Lucien’s press conference still rippled through every facet of my world. I hadn’t left the penthouse since the broadcast aired, afraid of what the outside world might look like now that my most guarded truth had become a headline. Lucien had claimed us—me and Leo—with a billionaire’s flair and a father’s raw conviction. The entire world now knew I was the woman he’d lost once and wouldn’t lose again. And Leo? Leo was no longer a secret. He was Lucien Wolfe’s heir. But with exposure came fear. I sat on the edge of the chaise lounge in the sun-drenched sitting room, clutching my phone like it was a lifeline. My inbox was flooded. Journalists, talk show producers, stylists, PR agents—even distant relatives I hadn’t spoken to in years. They all wanted a piece of the story. A piece of us. Leo was blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding. He was down the hallway with Sophia, his favorite nanny, giggling as she read him a picture book for the fifth time. The purity of h

Isla The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the town car was the flash of cameras. Even before the media found me, I felt their presence like the pressure of a storm rolling in—hot, stifling, inevitable. Lucien had warned me. “There’s no going back,” he’d said last night, his voice velvet-soft as he brushed a strand of hair from my face. “When I go public with Leo, everything changes.” He wasn’t wrong. Now I stood at the courthouse steps, my fingers curled around the leather strap of my handbag like it could anchor me through the whirlwind ahead. Lucien stood beside me, immaculately dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his expression calm but unreadable. His hand brushed the small of my back—reassuring, possessive, and entirely too grounding. Across the street, a few paparazzi shouted our names. “Lucien! Isla! Is that your child?” “Is this the real reason behind the Renwick acquisition?” “Isla, how long have you been hiding the baby?” I didn’t flinch, but my spine s

Isla I watched the sunlight dance on the polished marble floors of Lucien’s penthouse, my reflection faintly staring back at me through the massive windows overlooking Manhattan. It should have felt luxurious, comforting even—but all I could feel was the tight knot in my stomach. The world had shifted. Again. First, Lucien’s bold press conference. Then Damon’s move for custody. And now… the waiting. The silence before the next storm. Leo was in the playroom down the hall, laughing softly with Marie, the nanny Lucien trusted with his life. I could hear the faint tinkling of toy blocks, the soft cadence of his little voice forming stories only he could understand. But I wasn’t there with him. I was in the kitchen, clutching a porcelain mug filled with a tea I hadn’t touched. My mind was racing, retracing every step that had led us here—every secret, every truth, every moment I thought I was doing what was best for my son. Now I wasn’t so sure anymore. The door behind me creaked s

Elara The Throne isn’t a seat. It’s a wound. A jagged monument of black crystal, veins of molten silver pulsing through it like a living heart torn from the chest of some primordial god. It rises at the center of the void, spires hooked like talons toward a sky that isn’t sky—just an endless chasm of stars swirling like an open eye. And Kael stands at its base. His back to me. Shadows curl from his skin like smoke from burning silk, streaming toward the Throne as if gravity itself bends to him. The raw force rolling off him is a tide that steals breath, thought, everything. It shakes the spires around us like they’re nothing more than brittle glass. And then—he moves. Slow. Deliberate. One step toward the Throne. The bond lashes through me so violently I stagger, Seris’ grip the only thing keeping me upright. “Elara—” Her voice is a knife at my ear. “If he sits—” “I know.” Gods, I know. Because this isn’t just Kael taking a seat. This is Kael becoming what the world has

Elara My feet hit the Ashen Road like it isn’t shattering beneath me. Like I’m not walking into the jaws of something that will swallow everything. Because Kael said my name. And the bond—gods, the bond is no longer a whisper or a hum. It’s a storm inside me, a tidal pull that drags me forward even as Seris’ fingers claw into my arm, anchoring me like a hook in my flesh. “Elara!” Her voice is jagged steel. “Don’t you dare—” I wrench free. I don’t even feel myself doing it. Shadows coil around my ankles, wrapping like vines, slick and alive. They’re gentle on me—terrifyingly gentle—while the rest of the world screams. Because Kael isn’t a man anymore. He’s becoming. The Throne answers him, pulses with him, like it’s always been waiting for his voice. Spires of black crystal bloom upward, splitting the Ashen Road like ribs tearing from the body of a god. Silver light veins through them—Kael’s veins, Kael’s blood made architecture—and the air bends, warps, like gravity is breakin

Elara Time fractures. Not like glass this time—like bone. Painful. Irreversible. Every second grinds like teeth, gnashing reality down to splinters as three pairs of eyes pin me where I stand. Kael. Lucious. Seris. Waiting. Bleeding power into the air until the Ashen Road groans beneath us, fissures splitting in veins of black fire and molten gold. The Throne behind Kael pulses with hunger, a heartbeat of the void—each throb louder than mine, louder than thought, louder than prayer. “Choose.” Kael’s voice is calm, and that terrifies me more than rage ever could. Calm means certainty. Calm means the storm already belongs to him. Lucious’s jaw clenches, his blade trembling under Kael’s grip, light leaking from his knuckles like it’s trying to burn through his own flesh to reach me. “Elara…” His voice is raw, breaking at the edges. “Don’t.” Seris doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is a blade sharper than both of theirs, cutting through the roaring bond with a single

Elara Lucious’s roar splits the silence like a blade through glass—jagged and merciless. I spin, heart lurching against my ribs—and there he is. Tearing across the Ashen Road like a storm on fire, his wings blaze molten gold, every feather burning as if the sun itself bleeds through him. Light pours from him in torrents, searing the dark beneath my skin, pushing it back for one fragile heartbeat. Behind him, Seris runs silent and swift, cloak a shredded shadow, her blade naked in her hand, her eyes fixed on Kael with the calm of a predator stalking its kill. And Kael? Kael doesn’t move. He stands like a god carved from ruin—still, unshakable—one hand outstretched toward me, the Throne burning behind him like a black sun. A second, shattered dawn. Its light is wrong, too bright and too deep all at once, a radiance that stains everything it touches. “Elara!” Lucious’s voice rakes across my bones, raw and commanding. “Get away from him!” The bond snarls in response, wild and viol

Elara The Ashen Road bleeds under my feet. Not with blood, but with memory. Every step I take grinds the bones of what was into dust—fragments of cities, echoes of voices, scraps of myself I didn’t know I could lose. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. No roar of void, no screams of worlds unraveling. Just the sound of my breath and the slow, steady unraveling of everything I thought I was. And then— The visions begin. At first, they’re thin as smoke. My mother’s laugh. The taste of summer fruit on my tongue. A child’s voice—mine—singing some long-forgotten lullaby. I reach for them, but they dissolve like mist. Then Kael. Not the Kael I left bleeding in the shadows, not the Kael whose hunger I feel in my marrow now—but Kael as he was that night under the obsidian sky, firelight curling across his jaw, his hand warm against mine. “Elara,” he whispers, and I almost fall to my knees. Because it’s not the Throne’s voice. Not yet. It’s his. But when I blink, the image splits—Kael at the

Elara The silence after the Weavers’ words is not silence at all. It’s a void full of echoes, threads whispering in my blood, Kael’s voice tangled through every breath like smoke. Lucious moves first. His light flares sharp and hard, burning white against the black. He points his blade at the veiled figures. “You knew this. You’ve known all along.” “We are what remains of knowing,” they answer in that braided chorus, calm as the grave. “But the weave has knotted. The pattern strains.” “Speak plain,” Seris snaps, steel singing as she bares her teeth at them like a wolf. “What do you mean by hers?” They do not turn to her. They do not turn to Lucious. They turn to me. “The bond was forged in blood and breath. It threads through what you were and what you will become.” One steps forward, its voice unraveling into something soft, something almost human. “You can end him. Or you can join him.” The air drops cold, like the void itself is listening. “No.” Lucious’s voice is a blade