The following evening, Amara sat alone in her father's study, flipping through old letters and files.
Each paper felt like a knife.
Betrayals hidden in bank statements. Secrets buried in coded journals. Alliances paid in blood.
A knock at the door made her pause.
Before she could respond, it creaked open.
Luca Romano stood there.
Not with his usual army of bodyguards or smug arrogance but alone. Drenched from the rain, a bottle of vintage Brunello in one hand.
"Bold of you," she said coolly. "Coming here without an invitation."
"I had one," he replied, setting the bottle down. "Your father wrote it years ago."
He pulled a letter from his coat pocket. A familiar seal.
Amara stared at it, breath caught in her chest.
"You're lying."
"Read it."
She snatched the envelope, tore it open. Her eyes darted over the words.
"If anything happens to me, Luca will come. Trust him—until you can't."
Her hands trembled. Anger, confusion, betrayal swirled in her chest like a storm.
"What is this?" she whispered.
"A game," Luca said, stepping closer. "Your father's final one."
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I didn't kill him, Amara. But if you don't find who did soon, they'll come for you next."
She slapped his hand away, eyes blazing.
"Get out. Before I forget that, I ever cared if you live or die."
He gave a sad smile, the kind that cut deeper than any knife.
"You already forgot."
And then he was gone, leaving behind a bottle, a letter, and a woman torn between vengeance and truth.