Chapter Nine

Ruin in Red

The ring on Amara’s finger felt heavier than metal.

It pulsed like a second heartbeat — one she hadn’t asked for. One she wasn’t sure she could live with. But when Luca had slid it onto her finger in that shadowed room filled with Moretti bloodlines and secrets, something inside her shifted.

Not surrendered. 

Not softened. 

Just… changed.

She stood now at the edge of the Moretti's estate's west balcony, Sicily sprawling before her in shades of dusk and gold. The sea glimmered in the distance, waves rolling like whispers of everything she had once lost.

Her fingers curled around the railing iron.

She didn't hear him come up behind her. But she felt him.

Luca always moved like that — quiet as death, but twice as final.

“You haven’t taken it off,” he said, voice close to her ear.

She didn't turn. “I haven't decided if I'll give it back yet.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “You can try. But we both know you won't.”

She tilted her head. “Because you think you own me?”

“Because you were always mine. Even when you hated me for it.”

Finally, she turned to face him. “I still do.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer. “Love is forgettable. Hate? That lingers.”

His hand brushed the curve of her waist, slow, familiar. She let him touch her, not because she had forgiven him — but because her body remembered what her heart refused to. And part if her wanted to see if touching him again will quiet the chaos inside. 

It didn't. 

It made it worse.

She stepped back. “Don’t confuse survival with affection, Luca.”

“I'm not confused,” he said. “You survived because you knew how much I'd want you back.”

Her jaw tightened. “That's not why I lived.”

“No,” he agreed. “You lived because you are too stubborn to die.”

A beat passed. 

Then: “The commission believed us.”

“I know.”

“But not everyone in that room was convinced.”

He leaned against the railing beside her. “Sergio Vitale?”

She nodded. “He's watching me.”

“He's watching us.”

He's planning something.”

Luca's gaze dropped to the garden below, jaw tight. “Let him.”

“I'm not afraid,” she said.

He turned to her. “No. But they should be.”

Their eyes locked. 

It wasn’t affection.

It wasn’t trust.

It was something more dangerous. 

Understanding. 

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I had someone dig into what happened to you. Quietly. Off-books.”

She took it. Unfolded it.

Her breath caught. 

It was a manifest — flight records, surveillance logs, bribes. A trail. One that led back to her father's consigliere. 

“He sold me?” She whispered. 

“Yes.”

Her chest heaved. “To who?”

“Not just the cartels. To someone working with Vitale.”

Amara’s stomach twisted. 

Everything she feared was becoming real. 

The betrayal hadn’t ended. It had only shifted hands. 

Luca stepped closer. “We strike first. You and i.”

Her pulse spiked. “Together?”

His voice dropped. “You think i am letting you walk into fire alone?”

“I've done it before.”

“And it nearly killed you.”

She hesitated. “This isn't about you saving me.”

“I know,” he said. “It's about me burning the world for you. Again.”

Her throat tightened. 

Goddamn him.

Goddamn the way he said it — like it wasn’t devotion, but damnation.

She looked at the paper again.

Then crumpled it on her fist.

“Let's burn them first.”

That night, Amara stood on front of the full-length mirror in the guest suite, dressed for war in red saying and stilettos. The dress hugged her curves like second skin, slashed at the hip throat. The kind of dress that made men underestimate you — until you slit their throats with your smile.

A small dagger was strapped beneath her thigh.

Not because she needed it.

Because she wanted it.

A knock came at the door. 

She opened it to find Luca dressed in a black suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the ink at his collarbone. No tie. No apologies. 

He looked at her like she was a storm made flesh.

“Change of plans,” he said.

“What?”

“We're not waiting for Vitale to make his move.”

Amara blinked. “Tonight?”

Her smile was all teeth. “Tonight.”

He led her to the garage where a matte-black Maserati idled, guarded by two of his men.

“Where are we going?” She asked as he opened the door for her.

“To a party Vitale's hosting in Catania. Everyone who matters will be there.”

“Then what?”

“Then we remind them who the fuck we are.”

Catania glowed under velvet skies, all opulence and shadows.

The Vitale estate was carved into the cliffs overlooking the ocean, gold chandeliers spilling light across marble steps, laughter echoing behind grand doors. 

Amara stepped into the ballroom beside Luca, arm linked with his. Every head turned. Every whisper sliced the air.

“Is that her?”

“The Varela girl?”

“She's alive?”

“She's wearing red.”

“I hear she skit a man's throat in Naples.”

“I heard she killed her own father.”

“Either way, she's a queen now.”

She let them whisper. 

She was used to being the weapon no one saw coming.

Vitale spotted them from across the room and came forward like a snake in custom tailoring. “Luca. You brought your… resurrection.”

Amara smiled sweetly. “Sergio. You look older than I remember.”

His eyes flickered. “Red suits you.”

“Thank you.” She said. It's the color of war.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Walk with me?”

Luca's jaw flexed.

Amara squeezed his hand. “It's fine.”

They stepped aside into the garden terrace, lit with candles and scattered roses.

“Why the sudden return, Amara?” Sergio asked.

“Why the interest?” She countered.

“Because you were suppose to be dead.”

“So were you,” she said softly, “the last time you crossed my family.”

His smile thinned. “You're still sharp.”

“I'm sharper now.”

He stepped closer. “You really think you can survive at Luca's side? That he'll protect you from the storm coming?”

“No,” she said. “I'm not waiting for protection. I am the fucking storm.”

Before her could respond, she pressed a kiss to his cheek — and whispered. “I know what you did.”

Then she walked away. 

Back in the car, Luca asked nothing.

But his hand never left her thigh the entire drive back.

And when they reached the estate, he didn’t let her go.

He pinned her against the door, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that tasted like rage and ruin and everything they hadn't said yet.

“You're mine,” he growled. 

She kissed him harder.

Because she was.

And he was hers.

And the world was about to burn.