Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dante Romano leaned back in the high-backed chair beneath the marble arch, his fingers steepled beneath his chin like a man waiting for a confession.

But Amara Varela had nothing left to confess. 

Only the will to burn.

She didn't lower her gun.

“You orchestrated everything. My father's fall. The chaos in Sicily. You used us like pawns.”

He smiled faintly. “Of course I did. Because your father lacked vision. And because you, Amara, were born not just to lead — but to conquer.”

“Spare me your sermon.”

“No sermon,” he said quietly. “Just legacy.”

Luca moved closer, weapon raised, but Dante didn't even flinch. 

The room was eerily silent. No guards. No alarms. Just candlelight and old blood woven into the stone beneath their feet. 

“Where are your men?” Luca asked.

“Gone.”

“Dead?”

Dante turned his gaze on him slowly. 

“Would you stay if you knew the kingdom was about to fall?”

Amara stepped closer.

“Why now, Dante? Why let me in like this?”

He looked up, eyes dark and glinting 

“Because I want you to understand… before you kill me.”

She didn't blink.

He stood slowly, moving with the elegance of a man who never doubted his place in the world.

“Your father made a deal,” he said. “He traded the Varela crown for peace. For power. For protection. I didn't force him. He came to me.”

“You turned on him.”

“No.” Dante said, voice soft. “I outgrew him. Just like you've outgrown every man who ever tried to hold your leash.”

Silva's voice crackled in Amara’s earpiece.

“Perimeter's secure. We've swept the tunnels. Nothing.”

She kept her gun trained on him.

“You're stalling.”

“No,” he said. “I'm choosing.”

“Choosing what.”

“How I die.”

Without warning, Dante reached into his coat.

Luca fired — grazing his hand — but it wasn't a weapon Dante pulled out.

It was a single envelope. 

He tossed it onto the table.

Amara kept her sights on him.

“What's that?”

He nodded toward it.

“Proof. The final play your father never made.”

Against her instincts, Amara stepped forward and grabbed the envelope. 

Inside: a contract. 

Signed.

Sealed.

Her father's signature beside Dante's — an agreement to merge their empires into one.

One heir. One crown.

Her.

She stared at it.

Cold. Numb.

Luca looked over her shoulder, expression tightening. 

“What the hell is this?”

Dante's voice dropped into a whisper.

“Your father planned to bind our bloodlines. Through you. Through marriage. A daughter forged them from cartel blood and mafia bone… to rule them both.”

Amara’s hands trembled. 

“You're lying.”

“No,” he said. “I just arrived early. And your father died too soon.”

The silence cut deeper than any blade.

Amara couldn’t breathe.

She looked down at the paper again, the ink burning her vision like acid.

All her life, she thought she was fighting against darkness.

But she was made from it.

Planned for it.

Luca stepped forward, voice low. “This doesn't change anything.”

“It changes everything,” she said. 

Dante smiled.

“You were born to be a queen. I just made sure the world saw it.”

The shot rang out so fast, even Amara didn't realize she'd pulled the trigger.

Blood bloomed across Dante's chest like a black flower.

He stumbled back — once, twice — before dropping to his knees, laughing. 

“You finally chose,” he rasped. 

She walked up to him, stood over his crumbling form, and fired again.

Right between the eyes. 

Luca didn’t stop her.

Neither did Silva, who appeared later from the far hall, gun raised, face grin.

It was done.

The Devil was dead.

But the world was still burning.

Back at the Naples safehouse, Amara didn’t speak for a long time. 

She sat at the window overlooking the bay, still in her bloodstained coat, hands stiff and cold.

Luca knelt before her.

“You ended it.”

“No,” she whispered. “I began it.”

He looked at her, confused. 

She turned her face toward him, eyes shadowed and distant.

“They'll come for me now. The old families. The ones who feared Dante more than they respected me.”

“Let them.”

“They'll test me.”

He smiled. “Let them bleed.”

That night, the city whispered. 

The news spread like wildfire. 

Dante Romano is dead.

And in his place stood a queen with no leash. No ceiling. No mercy.

Some feared her.

Some worshipped her.

But all of them watched. 

Because the world had changed.

And her reign had just begun.

The next morning, she summoned her council.

“Destroy everything tied to the Romano name,” she said. “Wipe out his remaining network.”

“And what about the ones who resist?” Silva asked.

“Erase them.”

Zeyna leaned forward. “Wjat about the throne? Will you take it?”

Amara's fingers tightened around her father's ring, now resting on her middle finger.

“No.”

They stared.

“I won't sit on the Devil's throne,” she said. “I'll build my own.”

Later, she stood in the cliffs outside Naples.

The sea howled below her. The wind tore at her coat. But she felt alive.

Luca stepped beside her, silent. 

“You good?” He asked. 

She nodded. “No. But I'm ready.”

“For what?”

“To make history.”

He kissed her like it was the last night on Earth. 

And maybe, in some way, it was.

Because the girl who came to Sicily for vengeance was dead.

And in her place stood something more dangerous. 

Something divine.

A woman born of ash and ruin.

 A queen made on fire.

And from now on, the world would kneel — or it would burn.