Lahat ng Kabanata ng Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

Smoke and Oaths The moment Amara stepped onto the dock, the sea wind slapped her face with brine and memory.It was just past midnight.Catania's port was mostly asleep, the fishing boats bobbing in my rhythm with the tide, the industrial loading cranes frozen like skeleton against the dark Sicilian sky. Somewhere down the length of the docks, Sergio Vitale's operation moved like a shadow behind the facade of silence. She didn't come alone.But she didn't tell Luca either.She couldn’t afford a distraction — especially not one with a possessive streak and a kill-first policy. This was her revenge. Her reckoning. The burner phone buzzed in her coat pocket.Anonymous message: Docks 6-9. Containers marked “Rubino.”She memorized the info, crushed the phone beneath her heel, and walked on.She was dressed in katte black, her hair braided into a crown at her nape, her gun strapped thigh-side beneath tailored pants, dagger hidden in her boot. No jewelry. No signature.A ghost with a vend

Thorns Beneath the Crown They flew out of Sicily under new names.. Two hours before dawn, Luca's private jet sliced across Mediterranean skies, bound for Madrid — a calculated move. Spain was the gateway. Quiet. Off-radar. And from there, they'd slip into the heart of the Romeros’ territory. Not with gifts. Not with diplomacy. With fire. Amara sat across Luca in the leather-clad jet, wearing a black pantsuit sharp enough to draw blood. She hadn’t spoken much since they boarded, but her eyes never stopped moving — reading, scanning, plotting. He watched her over the rim of his espresso. “You haven’t slept,” he said. “I don’t sleep when I'm hunting.” “You should.” “I will — when their empire is dust.” His lips twitched, but it wasn't amusement. It was admiration. And something darker. “I've never seen someone resurrect themselves the way you have,” he murmured. She glanced up. “I didn't resurrect. I evolved.” Luca leaned back, one leg crossed over t

The Man Beneath the MaskThe vault felt colder.Amara stood beneath the flickering ceiling light, her hands deep in folders, files, and flash drives. One by one, she opened them. Read them. Absorbed them.The further she read, the harder it was to breathe.Luca hadn’t lied.The Romeros. The Giordanos. The network of silent buyers. It was all there.But so was something else. She froze. A contract. Marked with the crest of the Moretti family.A deal.One forged before her father's death.Amara’s throat tightened as she scanned the terms. It was a trade agreement — goods for protection. Shipments, masked under coded names. But one name stood out in bold red ink.Varela.Her last name.Her legacy.Her curse.The ink blurred as nausea rose in her throat. She stumbled back from the desk, heart pounding. She read it again. And again.Her father had signed her away. But it wasn't the date that undid her.It was the counter-signature.Luca Moretti. Dated months before her abduction.She

Blood in the waterRome was never her favorite. Too polished. Too ancient. Too proud of it's own power.But it was the next battlefield. Amara Varela stood in a crimson silk blouse and tailored black pants, her heels echoing across the marble floor of the Di Lione estate. The family had once been allies to her father — and then they buried the alliance the moment she disappeared. Now they were kingmakers again. Dangerous. Rich. Watching.And she needed them to listen.Luca walked beside her,dressed in all black, the devil on velvet. He had barely spoken to her since Zurich. Since the vault. Since the blood.She hadn’t invited his voice.Just his presence. She could feel the heat of him even without touch.The Di Lione patriarch, Giovanni, greeted them with an arched brow and a too-practiced smile.“Moretti. And the cartel queen who rose from the ashes.Amara didn't blink. “You're still a snake, Giovanni.”“And you're still your father's daughter.”She stepped closer, her voice lik

The Crown Draws Blood Sicily didn’t sleep the night Raoul Varela died. Word spread faster than fire in a dry forest — whispers turned to storms, and by morning, everyone from Palermo to Madrid knew that Amara Varela had executed her own blood. They called her mad.They called her fearless. They called her queen. She didn't care what name they used — as long as they said it with respect.Luca found her in the vineyard at dawn, standing between the rows of black grapes like a statue carved from vengeance and velvet. She wore only a silk robe, her hair loose, barefoot in the dew. “You haven’t slept,” he said quietly. She didn't look at him. “Sleep doesn’t build empires.”He stepped closer. “No, but it keeps the queen from shattering.”Her lips twitched — half a smile, half a warning. “Don’t mistake silence for fragility.”“I never have.” He stepped beside her. “They'll come for you now,” he said. “The ones who stayed quiet while Raoul lived. The ones who think you’re just a girl