All Chapters of Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

evening sun, but the city’s beauty belied the storm brewing beneath its surface. Amara Varela paced the terrace of their temporary safe house, her mind a tempest of strategy, suspicion, and the lingering heat of desire. Every report she received, every whisper in the underground, told her the web of betrayal was far more insidious than she had imagined. Luca Nero appeared behind her, silent and commanding as always, his presence both a shield and a spark. His dark eyes scanned the horizon before settling on her. “You’ve been tense all day,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “What’s haunting you?” Amara’s lips curved into a thin, predatory smile. “The truth,” she murmured. “Every secret, every lie, every hidden dagger in the shadows. Someone wants us destabilized from the inside.” Luca’s jaw tightened. “Then we root it out, together. No one hides from us.” His hand brushed hers, fingers intertwining in a silent promise of power and passion. Insi

Granada’s skyline was swallowed by the early evening fog, the city’s streets winding like veins beneath a restless pulse. From the rooftop of their safe house, Amara Varela surveyed the city with eyes that had learned to see far more than the surface. Each shadow held potential danger, each whisper of wind carried secrets. And tonight, the city felt particularly alive—with fear, with anticipation, with fire waiting to be unleashed.Luca Nero stepped beside her, silent as ever, a dark silhouette against the dying light. The heat of his presence was almost tangible, a mixture of authority and desire. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, but they always returned to her.“Every move we make now,” he murmured, voice low and magnetic, “is going to draw attention. The syndicate is desperate. They’ll strike back harder, faster.”Amara’s lips curled into a smile sharp and calculating. “Let them come,” she said. “Every move they make only exposes them more. We’ve broken their network once. We’ll

Granada’s skyline glimmered under the pale light of dawn, the city a tapestry of fire and shadow. Amara Varela stood on the balcony of their safe house, the early morning breeze brushing her dark hair, carrying the faint scent of salt and smoke from the harbor. She had learned to read the city like a living organism—its rhythms, its whispers, its hidden corners. And the city had secrets, dangerous ones, ones that had already cost lives.Luca Nero approached silently, his presence commanding, magnetic. Even in silence, he exuded control, a lethal calm that balanced the storm within her. He leaned close, voice low and intimate.“Every secret we uncover brings us closer to the truth… and closer to danger,” he said, eyes scanning the horizon.Amara’s gaze hardened. “And every danger is a step toward retribution. Every betrayal we expose, every shadow we illuminate… Granada will learn who rules, and who burns.”The words hung between them, charged with both strategy and desire. In the worl

The wind off the Sierra Nevada was sharp that morning, slicing through the ancient streets of Granada like a blade. Fog clung to the rooftops, shrouding the city in a ghostly veil. From the window of the safe house, Amara Varela watched the world wake up in slow motion—its stillness a lie.She knew what was coming.Last night’s gala had marked a turning point. The name Dante Spina now echoed in her bones like a curse, and La Spina Nera had revealed its face.A serpent in a silk suit.But today wasn’t about Dante. Today was about legacy. About blood. About the woman whose memory still haunted Amara’s every breath.Isabel Varela.Luca stood behind her, bare-chested, a black rosary dangling from his fingers. He hadn’t slept. Neither had she. There was no time for rest—not when the enemy they were facing moved like a shadow behind curtains centuries old.“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.Amara didn’t turn. “It’s time.”They were going to the last place Isabel Varela had been s

There was no funeral for La Madre Nera.No tomb. No mourners. No holy rites whispered in incense.She burned in the catacombs she built from bone, and when the smoke curled into the Sicilian sky, the world above breathed a little easier. But Palermo... Palermo remembered.Amara stood on the rooftop of a limestone hotel, her leather gloves stained from the night before, her breath rising in faint puffs in the early morning chill.Below her, the city buzzed with markets and masked fear.Word was spreading.The Black Widow was dead.And her killer wasn’t a man. It was a girl — the daughter of the disappeared, the fury of a cartel queen, the fire that didn’t ask for permission.Luca came to stand beside her, lighting a cigarette, jaw clenched.“You’re not sleeping,” he said without looking at her.Amara didn’t respond immediately. Her hands were tight on the railing, her eyes fixed on a graffiti-tagged alleyway that led to the ruins of the old Moretti safehouse.“I can’t afford to sleep,”