Chapter Twenty-One

Into the Lion's Den 

Geneva was too quiet. 

Too calm. Too clean. 

It didn't suit Amara. Not when her soul still echoed with screams and gunfire. Not when she had blood under her nails and a body count chasing her like a shadow. 

From the backseat if the armored Bentley, she stared out at the glinting lake and elegant stone buildings, her jaw tight. Luca sat beside her, silent. Ahead of them, Silva and Mateo rode in a second car — backup cloaked in civility. 

They didn't look like killers. They looked like royalty. 

But that was the point. 

The real monsters wore silk and shook hands. 

Especially the ones who ran cartels in Geneva’s shadows. 

Especially Rafael Romero. 

They checked in under aliases — the Moretti name buried beneath layers of forged passports and encrypted booking codes. Their suite overlooked the lake, the windows so clear Amara could see the reflection of her own fury in the glass. 

Silva tapped her tablet. “Zeyna’s last signal was traced to a compound twenty minutes outside the city. Private estate. Walled, gated, thermal-guarded. The name on the deed is Claude Bellamy. 

Amara’s mouth tightened. “Romero's favorite mask.”

“There's more,” Silva said. “Drone surveillance caught this an hour ago.”

She pulled up a live feed: a flash of Zeyna — bound, blindfolded, but alive — being dragged across a marble hall by two armed men. 

Amara stared at the screen. 

Then closed her eyes.

Luca watched her carefully. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking I kill Rafael in his own house,” she said. “And burn the place to the ground.”

But Geneva was a trap. 

They all knew it.

And Rafael had set the bait well. 

A message arrived on a burner line. 

One line. No signature. 

“Come alone, or she dies screaming.”

Luca didn’t wait to argue. “You are not going alone.”

She looked at him. “If I don’t, he’ll kill her anyway.”

Then we find another way.”

“There isn't one.”

Luca's eyes darkened. “There's always a way.”

Amara walked to the table, picked up her gun, and chambered a round. “This is mine.”

By midnight, she was dressed in black from neck to ankle — no jewelry, no distractions, just a knife strapped to her thigh and the gun hidden in a side holster beneath the coat. 

Her lips were bare. Her eyes fierce. 

She looked like war. 

Silva adjusted the mic in her collar. “We'll be listening. No transmission out but we'll trace where he takes you.”

Mateo handed her a beacon patch. “This'll ping every three minutes. You vanish, we don’t.”

Luca stepped closer. 

She didn't speak. 

He didn't touch her.

But their eyes held a thousand words. 

She finally said. “If I don’t come back —”

“You will.”

She nodded once.

Then walked into the dark.

The car was waiting — sleek and silent. 

Two men in the front.

She didn't ask their names. 

Didn't speak as the doors locked and the city lights faded  behind them. 

Out of Geneva. Into the hills. 

The road wound tight, climbing toward the mountains. Eventually, the forest opened — and the compound appeared like a palace on the edge of nowhere. 

Steel gates.

Stone towers. 

And something colder.

Something old. 

Like the air itself had been told not to speak. 

They searched her at the entrance. 

Found the blade. 

She let them.

They missed the micro-latch in her boot — small enough to slit a throat, sharp enough to get her ten seconds of control. 

It would be enough. 

They led her inside. 

The floors gleamed like water. 

The walls were gold-veined marble. 

Silk tapestries. 

Blood money dressed like royalty. 

Then he stepped into view. 

Rafael Romero. 

Older than she remembered, but not by much. 

Dark hair. Lined jaw. Cruel mouth. 

He wore white like a man daring the blood to touch him. 

“Amara,” he said, smiling. “You've grown.”

She didn't stop walking.

Didn't offer her hand. 

“You wanted me. I’m here.”

He laughed softly. “Still fire.”

“No. Now I'm hell.”

He led her into a grand dining room. 

Zeyna was there — chained to a chair, bruised but alive. 

Amara’s hands curled into fists. 

“Let her go,” she said.

Rafael poured a glass of wine. “Eventually.”

“I didn't come to drink.”

“You came to see me. So see me.”

Amara didn't sit.

Rafael circled the table. “Raoul spoke of you. Said you were soft beneath the rage.”

“Raoul died screaming.”

Rafael’s eyes flashed. “He was weak.”

“And what are you?”

“Evolution.”

He sipped his wine.

“I never wanted to kill you,” he said. “Infact I admired you. The girl who turned pain into empire. The child who refused to stay sold.”

“You're not here to flatter me.”

“No,” he said, setting the glass down. “I'm here to offer you something no man has.”

She arched a brow. 

“A crown he said. “Rhe real one. Not this petty Sicilian playground. I’m talking Colombia, Paris. Riyadh. Seoul. We unite. I erase your enemies. You marry my name.”

She stared at him. 

Then laughed — sharp and deadly. 

“You want to own me. Like you tried before.”

“I want to build with you.”

“You want to leash me.”

He moved closer. 

And whispered, “Every king needs a queen.”

She didn't flinch. 

“Then let's crown one.”

She struck fast. 

The blade from her boot flashed. 

Straight across his arm. 

Blood sprayed. 

He roared — staggered — but didn’t fall. 

The guards stormed in. 

She dove behind the table, yanked the gun from the chair’s hollow leg — Mateo’s backup plan — and fired. 

One down.

Two.

Zeyna screamed, ducking. 

Amara launched forward, cut her bonds, shoved her toward the nearest exit. 

“You good?” She asked.

Zeyna nodded, limping. 

“Then run.”

Zeyna bolted. 

Rafael tackled Amara to the ground. 

They hit the marble hard — his hand at her throat, hers scrabbling for the blade. 

He sneered. “I should've killed you when I bought you.”

“And I should’ve poisoned you in your sleep.”

She spit in his face.

He snarled. 

Then — a shot.

Rafael’s body jerked. 

Then slumped. 

Blood bloomed from his side. 

Behind him — Luca. 

Gun raised. 

Eyes murderous. 

“You touch her again,” Luca said, “and I’ll kill you twice.”

Rafael gurgled. 

Amara rolled him off, stood, breathing hard. 

Luca pulled her close. 

“You okay?”

“I'm pissed.”

“Good. Use it.”

They didn't stay to watch Rafael bleed out. 

They didn't stay to burn the place. 

They dragged Zeyna to the car. 

Amara limped. Her shoulder was bruised. Her coat torn. 

But her fire?

Still blazing. 

Geneva burned in the news cycle by morning. 

“Unknown attack on foreign estate.” 

“Cartel war escalating.”

“Woman in red sighted fleeing the scene.”

No names. 

But every boss in the world knew.

Amara Varela had come to Rafael’s door. 

And walked away alive. 

That made her something terrifying. 

Later, back at the suite, Amara sat on the floor of the shower, shaking. 

Not from fear. 

From fury.

From adrenaline. 

From remembering Rafael had once touched her like she belonged to him. 

Luca stepped in, fully clothed. 

Sat behind her. 

Wrapped his arms around her. 

Said nothing. 

Just held her until the shaking stopped. 

That night, she stood at the window again. 

Still wet hair. 

Naked under the silk robe. 

Watching the city glitter below. 

Luca walked in quietly. 

“You should sleep.”

“I will.”

He stepped beside her.

“He'll die,” he said. 

“I know.”

“No escape this time.”

She looked at him.

Voice low.

“He already did.”