Chapter Twenty-Two

Thrones Built on Bones 

The plane hummed as it sliced through the clouds, leaving Geneva behind like a scar across the sky. 

Amara sat near the window, her hair wet from a shower that hadn’t washed away the weight of Rafael’s touch or the sound of his last breath. The mountains below were jagged, cold, and still — everything she had once been, before Luca Moretti. 

Now,she was something else. 

A queen without apology. 

And queens didn’t cry over men who tried to kill them. 

Not even when they were kin.

“Silva said the footage is everywhere,” Luca murmured, breaking the silence between them. “The whole underworld’s talking.”

Amara didn't look at him. “Good.”

“She also said the Madrid and Dubai branches have gone dark. You think Rafael’s allies are trying to hide?”

“No,” Amara said. “They're trying to decide if I’m worth kneeling to or worth killing next.”

Luca leaned back in his seat, watching her. “And what do you think they’ll choose?”

She finally turned to him, voice like silk draped over steel.

“I'll make the choice for them.”

By the time they landed in Sicily, the air was electric — thick with anticipation, fear, and something sharper. The Moretti estate was lit like a fortress, with every guard in position, every hallway monitored, every weapon within reach. 

Mateo met them at the gates. 

“There's a problem,” he said before they could even step out of the car.

Amara’s boots hit the gravel. “Talk.”

He hesitated. “One of our captains — the Sorrenti crew out of Naples — flipped.”

“To who?” Luca asked. 

Mateo’s jaw clenched. “We're not sure. But two of our intel are dead, and someone leaked the coordinates of our cargo ship in the Adriatic. It was hit an hour ago. Sunk.”

Amara’s face didn’t change. “How many casualties?”

“Ten. Including the captain.”

Her silence was louder than a scream. 

Then she said, “I want the name of whoever touched that ship.”

“We're working on it.”

“No,” she snapped. “You bring it to me. Alive.”

Mateo nodded. “Understood.”

Luca watched her closely. 

He didn't ask if she was okay.

Because this wasn’t a woman who needed concern. 

This was a woman with fire behind her teeth and a vendetta in her bones. 

Amara changed into black silk and boots before heading to the lower halls — where prisoners waited in silence and steel. 

Zeyna was already there, wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea and leaning against the wall like she hadn’t just survived torture at Rafael’s hands. 

“You good?” Amara asked. 

Zeyna smirked. “Nothing a little revenge won’t fix.”

“I owe you.”

“You don’t. But I’ll take interest anyway.”

Amara nodded. “We'll talk later. Rest.”

Zeyna raised her cup in salute. 

Back upstairs, the estate’s war room buzzed with incoming transmissions. 

Silva tapped through three layers of encryption and pulled up a still frame. 

A man's face.

Early forties. Grey beard. Burned ear. 

“His name is Emilio Fattori,” Silva said. “He worked under Sorrenti. We think he was the inside leak. The ship hit matches his last known access.”

Amara studied the image.

“I want him.”

“Already in motion,” Mateo said. “We tracked him to a safehouse near Messina. Our men are en route.”

“No,” Amara said sharply. “I go.”

Luca frowned. “That's unnecessary.”

“It's war.”

“And queens don’t storm bunkers.”

“This queen does.”

The safehouse was a ruin on the edge of a cliff. 

Rotting wood. Cracked stone. A place built to die in. 

Amara entered with Mateo and two guards, her gun drawn, Luca at her side. 

They found Emilio in the basement trying to burn files. 

He didn't get the chance. 

Two bullets into the wall beside his head brought him down fast. 

He whimpered. 

“Please — please, I didn’t —”

She kicked the lighter from his hand and knelt. 

Her voice was soft. "Who paid you?”

“I — I don't know his name —” 

She drove the butt of her gun into his ribs.

He screamed. 

“Wrong answer.”

“I swear, I only met him once! He said the Morettis were falling! That Romero was dead and the throne would be empty — he said I could buy a seat if I helped him tip the ship —”

“Name,” Amara growled. 

“Alessandro Varela!”

The room fell silent. 

Amara froze. 

Her heart didn't. 

Luca stepped forward. “What did you say?”

Emilio sobbed. “Alessandro Varela. Raoul’s cousin. He’s building something — he’s gathering the ones who won’t bend to her. He called her the whore queen.”

Amara didn't react.

Didn't blink.

She just stood, slow and controlled. 

And shot Emilio in the kneecap. 

Back at the estate, Amara poured herself a drink and stared at the fire.

Luca entered minutes later. 

“You're quiet,” he said.

She didn't turn. “Alessandro.”

“He was exiled. Banished.”

“He's blood.”

“So was Raoul.”

Amara set the glass down. He's not doing this alone.”

“No,” Luca agreed. “He's counting on the old guard. The ones who think you’re too American. Too young. Too soft.”

“They forgot I cut my teeth on men like them.”

He crossed the room,wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“They're about to remember.”

At dawn, she summoned every captain, every ally, every syndicate leader who still owed her loyalty. 

Not by message. 

Not by envoy.

In person.

The Moretti estate’s great hall filled with black suits, cold faces, and eyes that had seen too much.

Amara stood on the dais in a wine-colored suit, her hair braided back, a pistol on her hip. 

She didn't smile.

She didn't welcome. 

She ruled.

“The Varela name is not dead,” she said. “Alessandro thinks he can rise where Raoul fell. He’s wrong.”

Murmurs.

Unease.

“I will not ask you to choose a side,” she said. “Because there is no choice.”

She stepped down slowly, looking each man in the eye 

“You stand with me, or you die with him.”

Silence. 

Then a voice.

One of the older dons. Vito Mancini. Scarred. Shrewd. 

He stepped forward. 

And knelt. 

Others followed. 

One by one. 

Until the hall echoed with submission. 

Luca watched from the shadows. 

His queen had taken the crown. 

Now she was turning it to iron. 

That night, she stood alone on the balcony, the wind fierce and wild. 

She didn't feel tired.

Didn't feel fear.

Only the weight of what came.

A whisper of footsteps. 

Luca.

He set a file beside her. 

“Silva found something.”

She opened it.

Alessandro Varela. 

 New identity. 

Private villa.

Location: Palermo. 

Amara’s mouth curled.

“So the snake returns home.”

She didn't sleep that night. 

Didn't want to.

Instead, she stood by the window, watching the dawn bloom across the Sicilian horizon, red and gold. 

Like blood on fire.

She whispered to no one.

Come and claim it, cousin.”