บททั้งหมดของ Kingdom of Ash and Blood : บทที่ 121 - บทที่ 130

The war was moving faster now. Every dawn brought new blood. New losses. New whispers. But on this night, what came knocking on Luca’s door wasn’t a soldier. It was a ghost. He heard the gate open first — a rusty groan that shouldn’t have sounded. Then a voice. Rough. Familiar. “Still guarding shadows, cugino?” Luca froze in place. That voice had died a decade ago. He stepped out onto the terrace of the Moretti estate, the wind dragging salt through the dark. And there he was. Nico Moretti. Alive. A little older, leaner, scars where there were none before — but unmistakably him. Luca hadn’t seen Nico since the Massacre of Catania, the night the Lorenzis framed him for treason and left him for dead. “Nico,” Luca said, voice low. “What the fuck.” Nico smiled — a crooked thing. “You’re not happy to see me?” “You’re supposed to be buried beneath twenty tons of cement and ash.” “And yet,” Nico shrugged, “here I am.” Inside the villa, Luca poured whi

Sicily. 15 Years Ago. He was fifteen when he first killed a man. The knife wasn’t sharp. The blood came slower than he expected. But it changed everything. They called him il bastardo behind closed doors — the bastard son of Carlo Moretti, born to a mistress with no name and no power. Luca didn’t speak unless spoken to. He cleaned up after the soldiers. Picked glass out of ashtrays. Hid bruises beneath black sleeves. The Moretti estate was a kingdom, but he was nothing more than a stray dog scratching at the gates. Until the night his cousin tried to drown him. It started with a poker game. Luca had been watching — silent, hungry — when Tomaso Moretti accused him of cheating. Luca hadn’t touched the cards. Didn’t matter. He was dragged out by two older boys, beaten until his ribs cracked, then thrown into the garden well. They sealed it. Luca floated in black water for four minutes. He didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just waited. When he clawed his wa

The Crossroads Pact There were four of them at the table. Amara. Luca. Cassian. Dante. Each with a weapon. Each with something to lose. The villa in Marseille was candlelit and silent, warded by blood oaths and gunmen outside every door. A war was coming. One none of them could win alone. But alliances, like empires, came with prices. And tonight — they would sign their fate. Dante poured the wine himself. It was red as ruin. “I’ve spoken to the Basque lords. The Catalans. The Vultures of Barcelona. Even the last of the Vesper defectors,” he said, voice like gravel dragged through smoke. “They’ll follow us if we unify. One throne. One queen.” His eyes flicked to Amara. “But they want terms.” She leaned back, swirling her glass. “What kind of terms?” Dante’s jaw tensed. “If we lose the war... one of us must die.” Cassian scoffed. “That’s not a pact. That’s suicide.” “It’s faith,” Dante said. “Faith that we won’t lose. Faith that we’re willing to bet wit

Her Crown. His chains. Power doesn’t feel like a throne. It feels like chains — but only when you’re the one beneath them. Palermo – Midnight The cathedral was older than the city itself. Once a place of worship. Then a place of war. Tonight, it was a place of coronation. Candles lined the walls in hundreds. The pews were filled with underworld royalty — dons, cartel queens, gunrunners, traffickers, oil princes, fallen monarchs wearing stolen silk. And at the altar stood Amara Varela. Black velvet bled down her shoulders. A silver crown rested in Dante’s hands — forged from Vesper gold, melted Nero bullets, and a single red ruby Luca had given her in Florence. She looked like legend. Because she was. Dante spoke first. “In the name of fire, blood, and ruin…” He turned to her. “Do you swear to take this empire and all its sins — without mercy, without apology?” Amara didn’t blink. “I do.” Cassian stepped forward, sword in hand. Dante placed the

Ruins in Velvet Power looks different in silence. No screaming. No gunfire. Just a room full of kings who choose to kneel. Paris – Le Palais de Verre (The Palace of Glass) The ballroom glowed like a shrine. Gilded columns. Velvet drapes. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than cities. Tonight, it hosted the five remaining sovereigns of the European underworld. — Maximilian of the Prague Syndicate — Eleonora of the Corsican Triad — Silvio d’Amato of Milan’s bloodline — The Berber Prince of the Maghreb — And Archbishop Valier, the Vatican’s ghost broker Each came armed. Surrounded. Arrogant. Until she arrived. Amara Varela. Dressed in black velvet, no crown on her head — just a pistol at her hip and death in her eyes. She didn’t speak when she entered. She didn’t need to. Eleonora stood first. “Is this your way of proving power? One woman against five?” Amara’s gaze swept the room. “I’m not here to prove. I’m here to collect.” She took a