Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 31 - Chapitre 40

Return of the Bloodline The private jet touched down just after midnight.Madrid was colder than Amara remembered. Not the weather — the air. The silence. The hush that wrapped around the city like a whisper no one dared to say aloud.Luca stood at the bottom of the jet stairs, black trench coat snapping in the wind. He scanned the perimeter while Zeyna and Silva handled the convoy that waited in the shadows of the tarmac.Amara didn't rush.She stepped down slowly, her heels sharp against the metal steps, every inch of her wrapped in a long black coat belted tight at her waist. Her hair was up. Her lips painted blood.Her silence said more than any speech ever could.Madrid hadn’t seen her in twelve years. Now it would remember her forever.The villa her mother once owned had been abandoned for a decade.Vines crawled across the stone walls like veins. The windows were boarded. The hates rusted.But inside, it smelled like lavender and cigar smoke.Ghosts didn’t need much room.Sh

The villa was a fortress carved from fire and stone. Cordoba lay beneath a haze of dusk, the sun dipping behind the olive trees like it knew what blood would be spilled before morning. Santiago Cruz's estate stretched across the valley like a wound — walled, guarded, vicious.Amara walked through the gates with nothing but a steel ring on her finger and hell in her eyes. She came alone.Because wolves did not need packs to rip throats out.At the front doors, four guards met her. Eyes cold. Guns visible.One stepped forward. “Secor Cruz —”“Knows I'm coming,” Amara said.He faltered.She held out her hand. “Check me.”They patted her down — rough mechanical. She didn't flinch. Let them touch. Let them think she was vulnerable. They didn't find the small blade under her tongue.Or the poison ring on her middle finger.Or the silent fury in her veins.Once cleared, the gates parted like a mouth opening to devour.She stepped inside. The main hall was obsidian and gold.Like somethin

The vineyards of Sicily were drowning in golden light, but Luca Moretti saw only blood.He stood at the edge of his family’s estate, staring across the endless rows of Nero d’Avola vines, hands clenched behind his back, jaw locked. The wind stirred the edges of his navy shirt, whispering secrets he didn’t want to hear.Amara had gone to Granada. Alone. To meet Milo fucking Nero, and now she was silent.It had been eighteen hours since her last message. Three lines of cold truth:I found him, I found the truth, we need to talk.Each syllable clawed at his control. He wanted to scream. Wanted to board the jet and hunt her down himself.But he waited.Because to follow her now, without understanding, without power, would be playing directly into Milo’s hands. And Luca never played without knowing the game.Behind him, footsteps approached. Steady. Familiar.Sergio.“Boss,” his consigliere said quietly. “The council is waiting.”Luca didn’t turn. “Tell them to wait longer.”Sergio hesitat

The villa in Granada was supposed to be a sanctuary. Luca’s men had swept every room, stationed guards along the perimeter, and tripled security. But by midnight, the silence was too loud, and Amara felt more exposed than ever.She sat by the large window in the guest chamber, her knees tucked under her robe, staring at the velvet sky. The desert wind kissed the hills in a ghost’s lullaby, and yet her blood simmered. Milo Nero’s words haunted her."Your mother wasn’t taken. She chose to stay."A lie. It had to be. Isabel Varela wouldn’t have abandoned her daughter. Wouldn’t have watched their cartel fall into ruin without a fight. But then again, Milo’s tone hadn’t held triumph—it held pity.Behind her, the door creaked open.She didn’t need to turn to know it was Luca.His presence always filled a room like smoke. Dark. Claustrophobic. Inescapable.“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly, stepping inside.“Not with devils in the walls,” she murmured. “Or in my bed.”Luca chuckled, but there w

The Castello Nero loomed like a myth stitched into the bleeding dusk, its silhouette jagged and cruel against the Andalusian sky. It wasn’t a palace. It was a cage with velvet walls, and Amara was the most precious captive it held. She stood on the rooftop terrace, wind tangling her curls as she looked toward the Sierra Nevada mountains. The chill had teeth tonight. Somewhere in the halls below, Milo Nero was entertaining investors, and every echo of laughter rising from the banquet room made her fists curl tighter on the stone balustrade. She wasn’t invited. She wasn’t allowed. She was watched—constantly. Since the confrontation in the cellar days ago, Milo had kept her under tighter control. Her room was guarded. Her phone? Confiscated. And her mother? Still locked away in a wing she wasn’t allowed to enter. The bastard was keeping them both as leverage. But Amara knew men like him. They never held power as tightly as they thought. Her pulse thudded when soft footsteps a