Rome. A city older than kingdoms, carved into the bones of empires and cemented with the blood of the ambitious. It was fitting, Serena thought, that this was where the underground council had gathered. Not in Naples, where power was paraded in designer suits and whispered bribes. Not in Geneva, where the snow was still tinged red from the last attempted coup, the blood of the innocent and guilty lay on its grounds. No, Rome made sense. Power, after all, was never truly given. It was taken. The summit took place in a shuttered monastery on the outskirts of the City. A structure older than the families it now hosted, with thick stone walls that once housed monks and martyrs. The chapel had long been deconsecrated, but it still held a ghostly aura, almost like the echoes of old prayers were still clinging to its arches, fighting to be remembered. Inside the main chamber, time had been arrested. The long wooden table at the center was carved from oak darkened by centuries, s
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