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

We made it back to the Frostmoor stronghold before dawn, our wolves barely clinging to their forms. Lucan was limping, Kael’s left shoulder was slashed open, and my head throbbed with magic I didn’t remember using. My brother—silent and distant—walked a few paces behind us. He hadn’t spoken since Ashen rose from the Hollow. I wasn’t sure if he was stunned… or scared. Maybe both. The Frostmoor wolves stood at the gates with blades drawn, but when they saw Kael bleeding beside me, they dropped their weapons instantly. “She’s one of us,” Kael growled before collapsing to one knee. I caught him before he hit the stone floor. “Get a healer!” I barked. “Now!” ⸻ Kael’s wounds weren’t fatal, but they were deeper than expected. The Shadowborn claws carried something foul—something that resisted healing magic. The pack witches did what they could, but he needed time. Rest. Time we didn’t have. I sat beside him, brushing a strand of hair from his face. He was sleeping, but his jaw kept

The ground split open. A jagged line cleaved the Hollow’s center, ripping apart the cracked earth like some ancient beast had clawed its way from beneath our world—and maybe, it just had. My brother—the one I’d only just met—backed away from the edge of the chasm, his face suddenly pale beneath the glow of the blood moon. “You weren’t supposed to come,” he muttered. “Not yet.” “What the hell is that?” I asked, the Moonfang pulsing like a heartbeat in my palm. He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know. Because this wasn’t part of anyone’s plan—not Darian’s, not the gods’, not even the nightmares that haunted my own bloodline. From the chasm came a sound. Not a growl. Not a howl. A cry. Raw. Hollow. Human. I stepped toward the edge. Lucan shouted behind me, “Elara, don’t—!” Too late. A blast of cold wind hit me in the chest, dragging the scent of earth, blood, and birth magic up from the shadows. It smelled like storms. Like death. And then— A hand reached up from the d

My father died in my arms. Again. Only this time, it wasn’t the fire or the war or the stories whispered through a thousand lies. It was real. His blood soaked through my tunic, warm and sticky. His eyes—those same storm-gray eyes as mine—stared past me, blank, broken. And his final words? They scorched deeper than any blade. “Your brother… is still… alive.” Kael dragged me out of the crypt before I could collapse beside the body. I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t say a word. I just burned. Inside. Quiet and brutal. Because how the hell do you mourn a second death when you barely survived the first? Lucan stayed behind to seal the catacombs. “If Darian wants more blood, he’ll have to bleed for it,” he muttered, scrawling runes in ash across the stones. Kael didn’t speak until we were halfway down the Vale cliffs. “Elara,” he said quietly. “What if it’s true?” “It is,” I snapped. “You saw the mark on the girl. You saw what was written in the crypt. My mother didn’t just

I didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. The girl lay motionless beneath me, her blood seeping into the cracked earth. The mark on her chest glowed faintly—fading with every second. It was identical to mine. Same crescent. Same pulse of old magic. Same ancestral fire. “She was one of us,” I whispered. Kael crouched beside me, his jaw clenched, hands trembling. “I didn’t know. I swear, Elara, I didn’t know—” “She died because of me.” “No.” His voice was sharp, fierce. “She died because of Veyrix.” But that didn’t change the fact that the sigil didn’t lie. She wasn’t just a Luna candidate. She was family. Maybe a cousin. Maybe more. Someone my mother had hidden. Protected. Sacrificed. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I asked, tears burning hot in my eyes. “Why did she have to die for me to see her?” Lucan stepped forward, blood smeared across his jaw. “She wasn’t in any of the records. I checked the old scrolls myself. There was no mention of a second bearer.” “She wasn’t jus

The sky didn’t just split—it shuddered. The light from Kael’s pendant pierced the clouds like a war cry, and every creature—wolf, god, traitor—paused beneath its glow. My skin vibrated with something ancient. Not just magic. Something calling. Somewhere far away, a howl rose in response. It wasn’t Kael. Wasn’t mine. It was older than Stormbane. Older than any bloodline. The Wolf Between Worlds. The first. Kael limped to my side, eyes wide with pain and awe. “What the hell did you just do?” “I called it,” I whispered. “The one who watches everything.” He looked up at the sky, where stars bled silver and the clouds churned like a storm held in chains. “You weren’t supposed to do that.” “I know,” I said. “But I had no choice.” Across the battlefield, Darian froze. His dark eyes narrowed. “You didn’t,” he murmured. “You couldn’t.” Maelin was on her knees now, whispering prayers in Old Wolf. Lucan swore under his breath, dragging his blade through a downed Nightbound. “What

I hadn’t seen my aunt in years. Not since the night my mother died—burned alive in the great hall while the pack howled and the stars turned their backs. Her name was Maelin Vale. My mother’s only sister. Warrior. Strategist. And now? She stood beside Darian Crowe like she belonged there. Like she chose him. “Maelin?” I choked, unable to keep the crack from my voice. Her eyes—steel grey, sharp and cruel—raked over me. She wore black leathers reinforced with runes, and her silver hair was braided like a crown. “You’ve grown,” she said coldly. “You look just like her.” “Then why are you standing with him?” I spat, stepping forward. “You were supposed to protect her—protect me.” Maelin tilted her head. “Protect you? Is that what she told you?” Kael stepped beside me, chest heaving, rage simmering in his golden eyes. “Elara, get behind me.” “No,” I said. “Not this time.” Maelin’s expression didn’t falter. “Your mother lied to you. She lied to all of us. She hid what you were—w