Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 101 - Chapitre 110

The wind off the Sicilian coast had the taste of salt and ghosts.Amara stepped out of the armored car, her boots sinking into the gravel of what was once the courtyard of the Varela estate. Only the gates remained intact — wrought iron, flaking gold, the family crest still tarnished but standing. The mansion beyond was gutted, scorched from the siege that ended her father’s empire.“I thought I’d never come back here,” she muttered.Beside her, Luca scanned the ruins with dead eyes. “We don’t come back. We haunt.”The sun was setting behind the hills, bleeding orange across the rubble. Nico stood by the main doors, holding a map drawn in Matteo’s own hand — a hidden passage leading beneath the ruins. A wine cellar that hadn’t been marked in any of the estate's official blueprints.“It’s not on the Council’s files,” Nico said. “This was personal.”Amara took the flashlight, flicked it on. “Then let’s make it personal.”The DescentDust and silence ruled the underground. The stairs cre

Barcelona, Spain — The Black CitadelThe private jet touched down just before dusk.Barcelona was painted in blood-orange light, its Gothic skyline clawing the sky like fangs. Amara stood at the window of the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, her jaw tight, heart cold. This wasn’t just another city.This was his city.Mikhail Nero.The man who was her brother by blood.Her rival by birthright.Luca sat beside her, silent. Ever since the video message, he hadn’t spoken much. But the tension between them crackled like dry firewood. And beneath it all, jealousy smoldered.They weren’t just driving into enemy territory.They were driving into family.The Black CitadelThe gates of the estate were tall enough to drown the sun. Black iron. Coiled in serpentine detail. The guards didn’t frisk her. Didn’t scan her.They bowed.The doors opened with a hiss.The entrance hall was cathedral-like. Silver mosaics inlaid with the Varela symbol—altered. Instead of a crown, it bore the Ouroboros. The

The Nero estate shimmered beneath candlelight and storm clouds. Tonight was no ordinary gathering. It was a masquerade hosted in honor of Mikhail’s blood pact — a strategic performance designed to smoke out threats and introduce allies. But beneath the opulence, every step whispered danger. Amara stood before the mirror, her mask a delicate filigree of onyx and red garnet, forged in the shape of a spider’s web. Fitting. Tonight, she would face the woman called The Red Widow. She had been mentioned only in code — seen in photographs, never in person. But Amara felt it in her gut. Tonight, the enemy would walk among them. And she'd be ready. The Masquerade Begins The grand ballroom swelled with music and murmurs. Chandeliers reflected off the marble, casting fractured light across silk gowns and masked faces. Luca appeared beside her like a phantom — dressed in tailored black, mask carved with Sicilian silver. His presence burned beside hers. “Can you feel it?” she murmured.

Naples was not a city. It was a battlefield disguised in limestone and silk. The scent of sea salt barely covered the rot beneath — a place where old money danced with blood, and secrets were bought by the gram. Amara had stepped into a thousand dangerous rooms, but this one… this one was breathing. Inside the ancient opera house turned underground auction ring, everything was velvet and shadow. She wore black — slit up the side, low across the back, her hair pinned in a coil of thorns. Luca walked beside her in a midnight suit, his jaw locked, his eyes scanning every threat like a beast leashed too tight. “Two hours,” he murmured. “Then we burn it.” Amara’s lips curled. “Try not to kill anyone before I get the bid in.” Luca’s eyes darkened. “Not a promise I can keep.” Behind the Curtain They entered through the VIP wing. The marble floors gleamed with blood money. Men in tuxedos and women draped in diamonds passed glasses of aged wine like communion. Milo Nero’s intel had b

Geneva looked like glass—clean, cold, and too perfect. From the air, the city shimmered beneath a blanket of alpine fog. Neat. Pristine. But Amara knew better. Perfection was a mask. And behind Geneva’s polished face was a vault filled with secrets her mother had died protecting. The jet landed in silence. Luca stood beside her in a tailored black suit, sharp enough to slice through steel. His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable. “Tell me again why we’re walking into a lion’s den without an army?” he asked. Amara didn’t blink. “Because sometimes… fire needs to go where the gasoline lives.” The Plan They had forty-eight hours. That’s how long the intel from Leandro would stay valid. According to the map encrypted in the rose blade, Isabel had transferred her most dangerous files to a private vault under a luxury bank called Roth & Nacht—a front for the Black Chamber’s Swiss network. Uncrackable. Untouchable. Unless you were Luca Moretti. Or Amara Varela. And you had nothin