Chapter Twenty-Five

When Queens Make War 

Palermo's streets shimmered with heat, but Amara felt nothing but ice in her veins. 

The city was awake — pulsing with tourists, vendors, traffic — blissfully unaware that in less than twenty-four hours, it would become a battlefield. Not the kind fought with tanks or armies, but the silent kind. The kind that began in whispers and ended in funeral smoke. 

Amara stood in the center of the war room, one hand in the back of the chair, eyes locked on the digital map glowing red and gold on the screen. 

Silva tapped twice, bringing up satellite footage of a crumbling estate on the outskirts of Mondello. 

“This is where Romano is hiding,” Silva said. “Old monastery. Abandoned for decades. Renovated underground. My team's confirmed it's not just a bunker — it's a control center.”

Amara’s eyes narrowed. 

“How many men?’

“At least fifty. Maybe more. Armed. Trained. And fully loyal.”

“Who's inside with him?”

Silva hesitated. “We confirmed four capos from the old Rome alliance. He's rebuilding an empire behind your back.”

“Not behind mine,” Amara muttered. “Just ahead of my bullet.”

They planned in silence.

Zeyna coordinated assault positions from rooftops and sewers. Mateo organized supply lines. Luca reviewed kill orders with a calm deadlier than rage. Amara, at the center of it all, felt a strange stillness settled into her chest.

Not fear.

Not nerves. 

Readiness.

The kind that came only after surviving fire and betrayal. 

“Why not strike now?” Mateo asked.

“Because he wants us to,” Amara said. 

Zeyna nodded. “He's waiting for aggression. He's baiting you into a trap.”

“Then we give him a better one,” Amara said, looking up. “We won't attack the estate.”

Luca raised a brow. “Then what?”

She smiled. Cold. Sharp.

“We smoke him out. We make him come to us.”

At 3 a.m., Palermo erupted.

Three warehouses tied to Romano’s operations were set ablaze.

A truckload of weapons en route from Naples was intercepted and torched on live feed.

Twenty of his men were arrested by planted interpol agents on bogus drug charges.

It was brutal. Public. Surgical. 

By dawn, Dante Romano had lost over 40 million euros. 

The Devil was bleeding. 

And he was going to retaliate.

Amara waited in silence at the Moretti estate. 

Wore black. Spoke little. Listened always.

She didn't have to wonder if Dante would strike.

She just had to decide what price she was willing to pay when he did.

He came at sunset.

Not with an army.

Not with bullets.

But with words.

A letter — delivered by a young girl, maybe ten, with curls and blood on her dress.

The guards let her through, confused, alarmed.

She held out the letter in both hands.

It was addressed: To the Queen of Ash and Ruin.

Amara opened it without a word.

The handwriting was clean.

Precise.

Dante's. 

“My dear niece by blood and ambition — I wonder if you understand yet that ear is not by power. It is about endurance. You've made a lot of noise, and noise doesn't scare me.

 Meet me. One hour. Church of Santa Rosalie.

 Come alone.

 Or your city burns.”

No signature.

Just a black wax seal with an ouroboros coiled around a crown.

“Do not go alone,” Luca said, voice hard.

Amara slid on her shoulder holster. “I have to.”

He's baiting you.”

“He's testing me. If I send anyone else, he'll level Palermo.”

Silva stepped forward. “We can track you. Plant devices. Cover the exits —”

Amara shook her head. “Romano plays old-school. No electronics. No tricks.”

Zeyna frowned. “What if he's rigged the church?”

Amara smirked. “Then I'm already a ghost.”

The church was empty. 

Dust in the pews. Candles long melted. Stained glass shattered in places.

Amara stepped through the archway like a knife, her boots echoing down the aisle.

Dante Romano stood at the altar. 

He wore no armor. No weapons. Just a black suit and a ring older than the Vatican. 

He smiled when he saw her.

“You came.”

“I didn't come to talk.”

“You didn't come to kill me either. Not yet.”

Amara stopped five feet from him. “Why threaten Palermo?” 

She said nothing.

He stepped closer.

“You've killed Varela. Morettis. You even tried to erase your cousin.”

“I did erase him.”

He smiled. “And yet here you are. Alone.”

“I'm never alone,” she said quietly. 

Dante's eyes gleamed. 

“You think love is enough to protect you?”

“No. But rage is.”

He tilted his head. “Do you want to know the truth about your father?”

Amara didn't flinch. “I know enough.”

“No, you don't.” His voice dropped. “Your father didn’t fear me. He worked with me.”

“That's a lie.”

“He let me in. Welcomed me. And then he tried to double-cross me. He died because of his arrogance. Just like you will.”

She stepped forward, voice cold as steel.

“My father died because he trusted people like you. But I don't. 

She raised the pistol and pointed at his chest. 

Dante didn't move.

“Do it “

Amara’s finger hovered over the trigger.

But then she heard it — faint, distant, wrong.

A click.

A pulse in the shadows.

The sound of a sniper adjusting their aims.

Dante smiled.

“I never said we were alone.”

Amara dove. 

The shot rang out — splintering stone where her head had been.

She rolled, fired twice, and ducked behind a pew as bullets rained down.

Dante was gone. 

Smoke from a flash grenade filled the air.

Guards stormed in through the side.

Her earpiece crackled to life.

“Extraction inbound!” Silva shouted.

“Two minutes.”

Amara fired again — caught one man in the throat. Another in the leg.

Blood painted the altar red.

Luca's voice shouted through the comm: “I'm en route.”

She didn't run.

She moved — fast, precise, brutal.

Every shot mattered.

Every second burned.

By the time Luca reached her, two men were already dead at her feet, and her coat was soaked with someone else's blood.

He pulled her against him, checking her body.

“You're hit?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Not mine.”

“Then let's go.”

Back at the estate, she didn’t speak for a long time.

She just sat at the edge of the table, blood still on her hands, staring at the photo of her father on the wall.

“Did you know?” She whispered. 

Silva stepped forward. “About what?”

“Romano. The deal. The betrayal.”

Silva looked down.

“I suspected.”

Amara nodded slowly. 

Then stood.

And smashed the picture frame to the ground. 

“We burn it all,” she said.

Luca stepped beside her. “Then let's start tonight.”