The night was thick with the metallic tang of gun oil and anticipation. Amara stood in the war room, its walls plastered with maps, surveillance photos, and hastily drawn diagrams. A soft glow from the hanging lamps cast long shadows over the faces of the men gathered around her. They were Dante’s men—hardened, loyal, but uneasy about taking orders from someone who was not Dante himself.She felt their stares—half curious, half doubtful. To them, she was the beautiful woman Dante had risked too much for, the distraction who had once been little more than a pawn. But tonight, she would show them something else.“Where’s the shipment now?” she asked, her voice crisp, commanding.One of the lieutenants, Mateo, cleared his throat. “Dockyard 14. Our scouts say Valerio’s men have taken full control. They’re guarding it heavy, Queen. At least thirty men, fully armed.”Queen. The title still sat strangely on her shoulders, though some used it with sincer
Amara stood in front of the gilded mirror in Dante’s penthouse suite, her reflection staring back with a quiet ferocity. The city lights of Florence sprawled beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, a patchwork of gold and shadow. Dante was gone—kidnapped by Lorenzo’s men, taken into the lion’s den where every second counted. The ache in her chest had not lessened since his disappearance, but grief was a luxury she could not afford.She was his queen now, whether by design or by cruel circumstance.And queens didn’t weep. They conquered.Amara smoothed the black silk dress that hugged her body, the fabric chosen not for comfort but for war. Seduction was her blade tonight. She would wield it with the same precision Dante used when holding a gun.Her target: Silvio De Luca, one of Lorenzo’s lower-ranking captains. Silvio was greedy, reckless, and notoriously weak when it came to women. Amara had watched him for days, gathering threads of his life fro
The morning after Dante’s abduction was eerily silent in the mansion. No laughter of guards exchanging jokes in the hallways, no sound of Dante’s heavy footsteps echoing with authority, no reassuring warmth of his presence. Only the thin light of dawn filtered through the tall windows, brushing the marble floors with a pale glow.Amara sat at the edge of the massive bed, her trembling hands clasped tightly together. She had not slept. Her wedding dress—now torn and bloodstained—lay discarded in the corner of the room, an ugly reminder of the chaos that had unraveled what should have been the happiest day of her life.She whispered Dante’s name as if it could summon him back. But silence answered.Her chest ached, not only with grief but with a suffocating dread. Dante was out there, in Lorenzo’s hands, and she couldn’t just sit here waiting. She remembered the look in Dante’s eyes before Lorenzo’s men dragged him away—fierce, protective, but also laced wi
The wedding that was meant to bind them forever had ended in fire, blood, and chaos. Gunshots still echoed in Emilia’s ears as she stumbled through the wreckage of what should have been the happiest day of her life. The white roses that had adorned the altar were shredded, their petals scattered like ashes on the wind. Guests screamed, scattered, and trampled each other in their desperate attempts to escape.And Dante—her Dante—was gone.It had happened so fast. One moment he was holding her hand, pulling her close as if to shield her from every bullet flying their way, his dark eyes steady and unshaken amidst the storm. The next, Lorenzo’s men swarmed in like shadows, surrounding him in a coordinated strike.Emilia remembered the raw panic in Dante’s voice when he shouted her name, remembered the feel of his grip tightening on her wrist—only to be wrenched away by masked men who overpowered him in numbers. She had screamed, clawed, fought with every ounc
The night was heavy with smoke and silence, the kind that pressed down on the lungs and made every breath feel stolen. Milan, once bustling with neon and music, now looked like a city under siege. Entire blocks were swallowed in darkness, the hum of electricity cut by sabotage, while fire smoldered from abandoned cars and shattered storefronts.Dante stood on the rooftop of one of his few remaining safehouses, his black coat flapping against the wind, eyes like shards of obsidian reflecting the distant inferno. Below, his men moved like shadows, wounded but not broken. Lorenzo’s offensive had been merciless, striking at Dante’s clubs, his casinos, his ports—everything that had once been his crown. Now the crown sat crooked, dented by betrayal, greed, and war.And yet, in that chaos, there was Amara.She stood behind him, wrapped in a cloak too large for her small frame, her face pale from exhaustion but still radiant in a way that twisted something inside
The morning dawned with a strange stillness. Rome was rarely quiet—its streets always filled with the hum of traffic, the chatter of markets, the heartbeat of a city both ancient and alive. But that day, as Amara looked out from her chamber window in the villa where she and Dante had sought refuge, the air seemed to hold its breath.The wedding day.It should have been filled with joy, with hope, with promises whispered beneath veils and vows spoken before God. Yet Amara felt a gnawing dread settle deep in her chest. The shadows of the war pressed in around them, threatening to steal every fragile piece of happiness she and Dante tried to build.She touched the lace of her gown—an ivory dress Dante’s people had somehow managed to smuggle in from Milan. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was beautiful. Modest, fitted to her curves, delicate in its embroidery. She looked like a bride. She was a bride.And yet, when she gazed at her reflection, she saw m