All Chapters of Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The Sicilian sky was a sheet of silver, brooding and silent, the clouds swollen with unshed rain as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. Amara Varela stood at the edge of the Nero estate’s scorched vineyard, ash brushing her boots, the taste of soot sharp in her throat. The ruins of the old chapel behind her smoldered like the bones of a forgotten god. In her hand, she held a charred relic — the last photograph of her mother smiling with Luca’s father. Now blackened around the edges. Isabel’s past wasn’t a mystery anymore. It was a war map, soaked in ink, blood, and secrets. Luca stepped beside her, silent for once, his tailored coat whipping in the wind. “The ring they found on Milo’s body… it wasn’t Nero property. It was Varela.” Amara didn’t flinch. “So my mother died wearing the cartel’s name. But Milo wasn't just a pawn. He made her vanish to protect something worse.” “A name?” Luca asked, voice low. Amara’s jaw tightened. “A bloodline.” She turned, heading

The air in Casablanca was different. Heavy with spice and smoke. A city caught between memory and myth. Beneath its glittering skyline, blood ran in veins older than borders, and men like Nico Vesper ruled from shadows cast by forgotten empires. Amara stepped onto the tarmac of her private jet, the heat curling through her silk blouse. She wore midnight black — not for mourning, but as a quiet war cry. Her eyes scanned the horizon. Palm trees swayed in a false lullaby. Luca followed behind her, jaw clenched, sunglasses reflecting the Moroccan sun. “Welcome to Vesper country,” Rafael said, greeting them with armed guards at the gate. “We have a safe house in the Medina. Nico knows you’re coming. He’s already moved his family to an undisclosed compound.” “So he’s hiding,” Amara said. “No,” Luca corrected. “He’s waiting.” Inside the Medina – Varela Safehouse The walls were thick with ivory stone. No windows. No weak points. Amara stood over the war table while Rafael laid out the

The city of Barcelona pulsed beneath a velvet dusk, golden light smeared over gothic spires and blood-colored rooftops. But Amara Varela wasn’t here for the view. She stood before the glass wall of the penthouse, eyes narrowed on the streets below. The Black Crown Summit was already underway at the Castell d’Estrelles, and every surviving Vesper ally with enough ego and ambition had crawled out of hiding to claim a seat at the table. Amara didn’t come to claim a seat. She came to flip the table—and set the room on fire. Behind her, Cassian slid a custom pistol into the holster beneath his jacket. “Final count: nine families, seven of them armed to the teeth. You sure about this?” “No.” Her voice was calm. “But I’ve never needed certainty. Just purpose.” “And blood,” he muttered. She turned to him, her black gown catching the dim light like oil. “They crowned Milo Vesper in this city. They whispered his name in this place like he was God. Tonight, we erase all memory of him.” “

Palermo had not seen a wedding like this in decades. The cathedral was old stone and candlelight, wrapped in the scent of myrrh and smoke. No flowers. No priests. Just blood oaths, armed guests, and a throne carved from a salvaged altar. This was not a union of love. It was a declaration of war by other means. And Amara Varela stood at its center—watching as Luca Moretti handed over his sister, Bianca, like a chess piece dressed in white. Hours earlier, the deal had been struck in silence. Inside a private chamber of the Moretti estate, Luca poured a drink neither of them touched. The air between him and Amara was too thick, too volatile. “She’s agreed,” he said finally. Amara looked up from the dossier. “And your lieutenant?” “Rafael Torres. You know him. Loyal. Dead-eyed. He’ll treat her with the same reverence he treats a bullet.” She smirked. “Romantic.” “This isn’t about romance.” “No,” she said coldly. “It’s about leverage. Binding bloodlines so no one moves without

Monaco sparkled like a sin-drenched diamond on the Riviera — all sharp angles and money-laundered charm. But beneath the casinos, yachts, and polished masks, it hid something far more dangerous: The Black Vault. A subterranean bank so secret, its clients didn’t have names — only numbers. A fortress where criminal empires stored their most damning secrets. Ledgers. Blood pacts. Names of men who should’ve died years ago. And tonight, Amara Varela and Luca Moretti were walking straight into it. Together. The casino was loud, gold-lit, and choked with perfume and lies. Amara swept through the crowd like a flame in velvet — floor-length black gown, lips the color of spilled wine, heels clicking like bullets. She looked like danger wrapped in silk. Luca walked beside her in a tailored midnight suit, no tie, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against her hip. They weren’t speaking. They didn’t need to. “You remember the plan?” Amara asked under her breath as they entered t