Blood still stained her hands.
Not from the imposter—but from the choice she'd had to make.
Grace sat on the edge of a hotel rooftop, overlooking Rome's skyline, the night lit by a burning church tower in the distance.
Her world was on fire.
And she lit the match.
---
Luciano had begged her to wait. To heal.
But Grace wasn't built for stillness.
> "I need to take them down," she had told him.
"Before they regroup. Before they forget how scared they should be of me."
He had watched her, his fingers tracing the bullet scar on her back like it was sacred scripture.
> "They won't stop, Grace. The Circle isn't one man or one plan—it's a religion."
She leaned in. Kissed him once.
> "Then I'll be their blasphemy."
---
Now, in the shadow of the Vatican, Grace watched the Cardinal step into his black car.
One of the Seven—the highest ring in the Circle. The kind who made others disappear with whispers and gold crosses.
She followed.
Tailed his motorcade through the twisting alleys of Trastevere, her fingers coiled around a blade that once belonged to her mother—before the Circle poisoned her.
> This time, I don't want justice.
I want fear. I want nightmares in their lungs.
---
Inside the cathedral courtyard, the Cardinal knelt to pray. Alone.
She stepped into the torchlight.
> "You remember me?"
He turned.
His face—shock, then panic.
> "Grace Moretti—You shouldn't be alive."
She smiled coldly.
> "Neither should you."
---
Two minutes later, she left him slumped at the altar, a bloody symbol carved into his palm:
> S for Saint.
A message for the rest.
Grace didn't run.
She wanted to be seen.
Because this was no longer about survival.
This was retribution.
---