Chapter Eighteen

The Blood that Betrays

The night air was razor-sharp.

Amara stood on the rooftop of the Moretti estate, the Sicilian wind whipping her coat behind her like a banner of war. The city shimmered below, golden and silent, but the chaos thrummed just beneath its skin.

Silva appeared at her side, tablet in hand.

“We have confirmation. Raoul landed three hours ago. Private airfield. No custom records. He came in with six men.”

Amara didn't blink. “Where is he now?”

“A penthouse in Catania. Bought under an alias connected to the Romero laundering network.”

So it was true.

Raoul Varela had never died.

He had watched the world believe he had.

And in the shadows, he had built something.

Or tried to.

Amara turned her gaze to the horizon. “He's going to come here. He won't run.”

“No,” Silva said. “He won't. He thinks you are still a girl playing the queen.”

“I'm not playing.”

She turned and walked back inside.

Tonight, there would be no mercy.

In the war room, Luca was already waiting, dressed in all black, finger steeples, eyes shadowed by something unreadable.

“You're sure you want to do this here?” He asked.

“This is my land now,” Amara said. “Let him see what I've taken.”

Luca rose. “Then we'll make it a funeral.”

“Not yet,” she said. “First, I want the truth.”

He studied her for a long moment.

Then nodded. The security is tight. He won't get far.”

Amara’s eyes hardened. “He doesn't need to get far. He just needs to talk.”

Raoul Varela arrived just after midnight.

He walked into the Moretti estate like he belonged there — in a designer suit, rings glinting on his fingers, and a smile carved out of cruelty.

He was older than Amara remembered — the silver at his temples had spread, and the laugh lines around his mouth were deeper.

But the eyes were the same.

Cold. Sharp. Calculating.

They were the eyes of the man that sold her.

“Amara,” he said, spreading his arms. “Mi reina.”

She didn't move.

He approached slowly, his guards halted by the threshold of Mateo and Silva's team.

“I always knew you'd survive,” Raoul said.

“I always knew you were a traitor.”

He smiled. “That's such an ugly word.”

“It's the right one.”

She took a step forward, gun at her hip.

“You sold me.”

“I protected you,” he said calmly. “From your father's enemies. From your own weakness. You weren't ready for the throne.”

“I was seventeen,” she spat.

“And reckless. Emotional. A girl with fire but no control.”

“So you caged me.”

“I made you.”

She laughed — cold and hollow. “You didn't make me. You forged me.”

He tilted his head. “And look how sharp you've becone.”

Luca stepped beside her, but said nothing.

Raoul's eyes flicked to him. “So the lion finally bowed to the flame.”

“I bowed to no one.” Luca said, voice like glass.

Raoul ignored him.

“I came for peace,” he said. “We’re blood, Amara. We can rebuild this empire together. The Romeros are weakened. The networks are broken. You and I— we can rise above them.”

“I'm not interested in rebuilding your rot.”

“It was your father's rot.”

She stepped closer. “And I'm burning if down.”

They moved to the inner chamber — a room built for negotiation and war.

Raoul sat from across her at the obsidian table, sipping scotch like he hadn't destroyed a bloodline.

Amara didn't touch her glass.

“You staged your death,” she said. “To avoid the heat after my father died. To inherit the throne from the shadows.”

He nodded.

“You let the Romeros traffic girls under our name. You funneled money through dead men's accounts. And when I came back —”

“I watched,” he said. “To see if you were ready.”

“I was always ready.”

He smiled. “Now you are.”

She leaned forward. “Tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Why me?”

Raoul's smile faded.

“Because you were too powerful. Too pure. You would've dismantled the game before learning to win it.”

“So you sold me.”

“I saved you from yourself.”

She exhaled slowly.

Then nodded.

And stood.

Luca moved without a word, dragging Raoul's chair back from the table. Silva handed her a blade.

Raoul didn't flinch.

“You're going to kill me?” He asked.

“No,” she said. “I'm going to show the world what happens when the devil bleeds.”

She drove the blade into his thigh.

He screamed.

And the guards outside didn't move.

Because they weren't his.

They were hers.

It took hours.

But Raoul finally broke.

Names. Numbers. Old allies. Hidden routes. A splinter faction of the Varela cartel operating under a new name in Argentina.

He gave her everything.

When he passed out, Silva tagged and uploaded every file.

Amara stood over him, covered in blood that wasn’t hers, her eyes dark and dry.

Luca stepped beside her.

“What now?”

She looked down at Raoul.

“I want him buried,” she said. “But not in the ground.”

Luca waited.

“In the ocean,” she said. “With weights on his chest. Where no one will ever find him.”

Luca nodded once.

It was done.

That night, Amara bathed in scalded water.

The blood didn't come off her soul, but it came off her skin.

She stood naked before the mirror, staring at her reflection.

Not broken.

Not whole.

Something else.

She touched her chest — white the cartel ring now hung on a chain.

Her crown.

Her curse.

There was a knock on the door.

She didn't speak.

But it opened anyway.

Luca stepped inside, his eyes roaming her bare skin, then lifting to her face.

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I'm not afraid.”

“I didn’t say you were.

She turned to him, unashamed. “Do you still see her?”

“The girl infound in chains.”

She nodded.

He came closer.

“I see the fire she became. And the flame still trying to swallow her.”

She didn't speak.

He reached for her hand.

She didn't stop him.

And when he kissed her, she let him.

Not out of weakness.

But because she finally understood the difference between power and survival.

And she wanted both.

Later, tangled in silk sheets and silence, he whispered. “What happens next?”

She stared at the ceiling.

The empire rebuilds.

“And us?”

Her voice was soft. “We burn.”