Chapter Twenty-Three

The Ghost in Palermo 

Palermo was humming like a funeral drum.

Streets too clean. Air too still. Even the pigeons on the wires seemed to know something was about to break. The break that started with a whisper and ended with gunfire.

Amara stoodvat the edge of the rooftop above Via Maqueda, black leather coat fluttering in the wind, a city of saints and sinners stretching out before her. Below, pedestrians moved like shadows, unaware that power was shifting beneath their feet. 

Somewhere in this city, Alessandro Varela was building his betrayal. 

And tonight, she was going to find him.

“He's smart,” Silva said over the earpiece. “He's using old tunnels, Roman-era, deep under the cathedral district. No cameras. No signal interference. Ghost territory.

“I'm not interested in excuses,” Amara replied. “I want a way in.”

“There's a back route. A tourist renovation site bear the Capo Market. Leads into one of the sub-basements.”

Luca's voice came through next. “And guards?”

“Six. Maybe more. Armed. On edge.”

Amara checked the magazine of her pistol. “Not enough.”

They moved as a unit — Amara, Luca, Mateo, and two of their most silent, most brutal guards: Nicole and Sofia. At nightfall, they slipped into the back alleys like smoke. No emblems. No announcement. 

She was done making statements. 

Now she was making examples.

The old church district was nearly deserted. Centuries of blood, ash, and whispered secrets clung to the stone walls. The Capo Market stalls were shuttered, but the air still smelled of citrus, copper and rotting meat. 

“Here.” Silva guided. “The scaffolding on the left. There's a service ladder down.”

Amara dropped first.

Boots hit stone. 

It reeked of damp earth and rust.

The tunnel stretched ahead, arched like a cathedral throat, lit only by flickering oil lamps — too old-fashioned to be modern.

Too deliberate to be innocent. 

They moved silently, guns raised.

Five minutes in, the first contact came — a sentry, tall and pale, stepped from behind a column.

Amara didn't hesitate. 

One shot to the neck.

He dropped, twitching. 

Another stepped forward — too late.

Luca silenced him with a blade to the gut, yanking it free before he hit the ground.

They left the bodies in the dark.

Amara didn't even glance back.

Then the hallway widened — and opened into what had once been a wine cellar. Now, it looked like a war room.

Old barrels stacked along walls. Tables with maps. Computers. Phones. A mounted screen showing f real-time feeds from cartel hubs across Europe. 

A voice cut through the stillness.

“I expected you sooner.”

Alessandro Varela stepped out of the shadows, dressed in a three-piece gray suit, silver cufflinks catching the light like fangs. He looked like old money wrapped in blood-soaked charm.

Raoul's cousin. Her father's betrayer. The last Varela snake.

Amara raised her pistol.

Alessandro smiled. “Family shouldn't kill family.”

“I'm not your family.”

“You carry the name.”

“I carry the fire that'll burn it.”

“You've made waves,” he said, stepping closer. “But you forgot the ocean doesn't belong to you, it never has.”

Amara’s voice cut clean. “It does now.”

“You think killing Rafael made you queen?”

“I was queen before his blood hit the floor.”

“Then why do your allies whisper behind your back?”

Amara moved forward, slow, deliberate. “They can whisper. They can even run. But when I find them, they kneel or bleed.”

“You're ambitious.”

“No. I'm inevitable.”

Alessandro eyes narrowed. “You don't have the stomach for what's coming. I knew your father. He was a lion. But you…”

Amara shot him in the leg.

He went down, hard. 

Mateo aimed at the remaining guards. “Nobody move.”

Alessandro grunted in pain, blood pooling around his slacks.

“I am my father's daughter,” she said, walking over him. “And I'm better than he ever was.”

She knelt. Pressed the muzzle to his throat.

“You tried to rebuild our name on treason.”

He laughed, gasping. “You think the na.e means anything anymore?”

“To me, it means justice.”

“To them?” He nodded at the screens. It means profit. Do you think they care if it's you or me in power? They care about who delivers.”

“Then ill deliver your head.”

She stood.

To Mateo: “Strip him. Torch the files.”

To Sofia: “Get the drives. All of them.”

To Luca: “You with me?”

“Always.”

Alessandro spat blood. “You're nothing without him.”

She looked down at him.

“Then it's a good thing I'm everything with him.”

Back at the estate, they strung Alessandro up in the same interrogation chamber Rafael once used to break enemies..

Now it wad hers.

Symbolic. 

Ironic.

Poetic. 

Amara poured a glass of water and stared through the bulletproof glass. Alessandro was shackled, bleeding, but smirking still.

“Let him rot,” she said.

Luca stepped beside her. “The other crews will know what you did tonight.”

“Good.”

“They’ll either swear loyalty or flee.”

Amara drank.

“Then let them flee. I never wanted sheep.”

Later that night, in her suite, she stood before the mirror. 

Stripped of makeup. 

Bare.

Unbreakable. 

Luca entered quietly, wat hung her reflection. 

“You didn't hesitate,” he said.

“I couldn't afford to.”

“You never blinked.”

I'm done blinking.”

He touched her shoulder. “You didn't need to do it yourself.”

She met his gaze.

“Yes, I did.”

In bed, she lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, her body still charged with heat and rage.

“I was never supposed to survive this,” she whispered. 

“You didn't,” Luca said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You burned. And what came back isn't just alive.”

He kissed her.

“It's legendary.”

Far below the estate, Alessandro Varela screamed as the lights went out.