Chapter Nineteen

The Crown Draws Blood 

Sicily didn’t sleep the night Raoul Varela died. 

Word spread faster than fire in a dry forest — whispers turned to storms, and by morning, everyone from Palermo to Madrid knew that Amara Varela had executed her own blood. 

They called her mad.

They called her fearless. 

They called her queen. 

She didn't care what name they used — as long as they said it with respect.

Luca found her in the vineyard at dawn, standing between the rows of black grapes like a statue carved from vengeance and velvet. She wore only a silk robe, her hair loose, barefoot in the dew. 

“You haven’t slept,” he said quietly. 

She didn't look at him. “Sleep doesn’t build empires.”

He stepped closer. “No, but it keeps the queen from shattering.”

Her lips twitched — half a smile, half a warning. “Don’t mistake silence for fragility.”

“I never have.” 

He stepped beside her. 

“They'll come for you now,” he said. “The ones who stayed quiet while Raoul lived. The ones who think you’re just a girl with fire and no leash.”

She finally turned.

Her eyes were steady. “Let them.”

Luca reached into his jacket and handed her a sealed envelope. “We intercepted this this morning. Came from a broker in Barcelona.”

She opened it. 

One name. 

Rafael Romero. 

And two words scrawled in red ink beneath it: 

“You're next.”

The Romeros hadn’t made a move in weeks. 

Amara assumed they were regrouping after their last shipment hub had been dismantled in Naples — a job she’d orchestrated with surgical precision. 

But now, they were striking with subtlety. 

A threat like this wasn’t meant to warn. 

It was meant to rattle. 

Luca watched her read the message again and again. 

“You're not rattled,” he said.

“I'm calculating.”

She folded the note and lit it with a match, watching it curl and vanish in her hand. 

“Rafael wants a war,” she said. “Let's give him one.”

That night, the Moretti estate transformed into a war council. 

Silva had three screens up — one tracking Romero money flow, one analyzing satellite movements, and a third showing deep web traffic. 

“Their primary money launderer just made a move,” she said. “Ten million transferred into a shell account linked to a weapons supplier in Ukraine. And another to Dubai.”

“Setting up new routes,” Luca muttered. “He's expanding.”

“No,” Amara said. “He's preparing to disappear.”

She paced slowly in front of the table all eyes on her.

“He knows I’m getting too close. If Rafael vanishes, we lose the entire thread of the syndicate.”

Mateo frowned. “He's like a ghost. No photos. No direct sightings. We don’t even know if it’s really him running the show.”

“Oh, it's him,” Amara said. “Raoul protected him for years. It's time I finish what I started.”

Luca leaned against the table, arms crossed. “So what's the move.?”

Amara turned to Silva. “You said Dubai?”

“One of the accounts led there.”

“Pull everything we have on Romero movement in the Emirates. I want every shell company, every name change, every proxy linked to him in the last five years.”

Silva nodded.

“And get me someone inside,” Amara added. “Not a local informant. Someone with access to the private clubs — the ones no one talks about.”

Silva hesitated. “That's dangerous.”

Amara’s gaze sharpened. “Good. That means we are close.”

By the time the intel came in, Amara had already packed her bag.

The jet was on standby. 

Luca appeared in the doorway of her room, arms folded. “You are not going alone.”

She zipped the case shut. “You are not coming.”

“Yes I am.”

She turned to him. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Then what are you?”

He stepped forward, eyes dark. “The man who will walk into hell with you and light the matches.”

For a moment, the silence was almost tender. 

Then she nodded once.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you get in my way, I will shoot you.”

Wouldn't be the first time.”

Dubai shimmered like a mirage. 

Skyscrapers like blades. Cars like jewels. Power hidden beneath gold and glass. 

They stayed at a penthouse above the marina, secured by Silva’s tech and protected by three armed men Amara trusted more than blood. 

Their contact met them in a rooftop lounge scented with jasmine and smoke. 

Her name was Zeyna — tall, lithe, and lethal in a backless dress. A former arms courier turned deep-network broker. 

“You're either very brave or very stupid,” Zeyna said as she lit a clove cigarette. “Coming here with your face. Romero has eyes on every strip of this city.”

“I want him to see me,” Amara said. 

Zeyna grinned. “I like her.”

Luca didn’t smile. “You have the list?”

Zeyna handed over a black flash drive. “Seven aliases. Two active accounts. And one property with restricted access.”

Amara opened the file. 

Her breath caught. 

There — nestled in the digital shadows — was a name she recognized from years ago. 

Diego Navarro. 

Romero's second-in-command. The man who once promised to “break her in slowly.”

Her grip tightened around the tablet. 

Zeyna raised a brow. “Personal?”

“Intimately,” Amara said coldly. “Where is he?”

Zeyna smirked. Penthouse at the Viceroy. Same floor as a known Romero front. Guards, tech, and too many women who don’t smile.”

Amara stood. “Then we pay him a visit.”

The op took twenty-three minutes. 

Four guards — neutralized. 

Two surveillance drones — hacked. 

One man — cornered. 

Amara stood in Diego Navarro’s suite, a gun to his chest, Luca behind her like a dark angel. 

“You remember me?” She asked. 

Diego’s face paled. “You—”

“Say my name.”

His lips barely moved. “Amara.”

She smiled.

“Good. Now die with it in your mouth.”

The silencer snapped once. 

He dropped to the marble, lifeless. 

Luca watched her, quiet.

“You didn't ask for information.”

“He was a message,” she said. “To Rafael.”

By morning, the footage was everywhere. 

A silent video. A grainy still. A whisper in the underground. 

Amara Varela, alive, armed, and unforgiving. 

Rafael didn’t respond. 

But Silva intercepted something else. 

A wire transfer. 

A hit.

On Amara.

Price: Seven million euros. 

Dead or Alive. 

Luca waw the number and went still. 

“They are coming.”

She nodded. “Let them.”

“But this time,” he said, “we end it.”

Back in Sicily the estate was locked down.

Security tripled.

Tunnels sealed. 

Weapons stocked.

Amara stood in the chapel, hands pressed to the altar. 

Not in prayer.

In preparation. 

Luca entered behind her. 

She didn't turn.

“I want to kill him myself,” she said. 

“You will.”

She turned then, her voice raw. “And if I die before I do?”

His jaw clenched. “You won't.”

“But if I do…”

She stepped closer.

“Bury me in the vault. With my name carved into the crown.”

He grabbed her hand. 

“You don’t get to die,” he said. “Not before I’ve given you everything I stole.”

She looked up at him. 

His gaze burned into hers. 

Then he kissed her.

Like a curse. Like salvation. 

And she let him.

Because tomorrow, they might burn. 

But tonight, they belonged only to each other.