The music's down to a low thrum now, just a heartbeat under the surface. Background noise. White noise.
I lean against the railing on the second floor of Inferno, arms crossed, gaze sweeping over my kingdom like a man checking for cracks in his walls. Below, my staff moves fast, practiced. Efficient. No panic. No questions. They're trained to erase chaos before it stains the floors.
Broken glass, overturned chairs, faint traces of blood–already being handled. By the time the sun rises, there won't be a single mark left.
But the air is wrong.
Still. Stiff. Like it's holding its breath.
My jaw tightens as I scan the floor.
There.
Amara.
She's at the far end of the bar, backlit by shelves full of whiskey and ruin. One hand on the counter, one heel hooked on the footrail. She looks relaxed, until you know what to look for. The tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers twitch like they're itching for steel.
To anyone else, she's just a woman with a drink.
To me, she's a question I haven't figured out how to answer.
Three years ago, she was fire without direction. Loud. Stubborn. All teeth. I remember her taking a swing at Marco for calling her 'princess'. Her father laughed. I didn't. Even back then, there was something coiled in her–something feral.
Now?
She's sharper.
Quieter.
She's learned patience. Learned control. That makes her more dangerous than ever.
Because now I can't read her.
And I fucking hate what I can't read.
She's not an enemy. Not yet. She's not an ally either. And she sure as hell isn't a civilian – not with the way she held that gun to my face like it wasn't her first time. Like she'd do it again without blinking.
She hasn't touched the whiskey.
Smart.
I tap my finger once against the railing. Small gesture. Controlled. The only sign I'm still thinking.
Keeping her in the club…could be a mistake. Or a calculated risk.
But she's got a target on her back now. Whether she asked for it or not. And if Black Scythe really is back in play…
Then this isn't about family. Or revenge. Or guilt.
It's war.
My earpiece crackles. "Luca and Marco just got back. Club's secure."
I straighten, my eyes still on her.
"Good," I say. "Send them to the war room."
I turn away from the balcony and start back down the hall. The music fades behind me. So do the voices.
I don't know if Amara came back from the dead to set the whole damn world on fire.
But if she did…I'm going to make sure I'm not standing too close to the fucking match.
I push open the door to the war room. It smells like gun oil and stale coffee. It's deliberate–no luxury here. Just cold air, hard chairs, and the truth, whether we like it or not.
Luca's already at the head of the table, tablet in hand, that usual calm menace settled over him like a second skill. He nods once when I enter, silent and efficient. That's why he's here. That's why he's mine.
Marco, on the other hand, doesn't even bother to look up.
He's leaning back with his arms crossed, mouth curled in that smug little expression I've been tempted to break more times than I can count. He's good at what he does, but he's got a mouth that writes checks his fists can't always cash.
"Status report," I say, my voice low but sharp enough to slice through the tension.
Luca taps the screen, bringing up grainy surveillance footage and a map of the city's underbelly. "Club's secure. No breaches other than the perimeter. No loose ends."
Marco snorts. "Except for the liability." His eyes flick to the empty chair where Amara should be. "She's volatile. She pulls knives on our own men."
Luca shoots him a look that could freeze fire. "She pulled a knife on you because you couldn't keep your mouth shut. She's sharper than you give her credit for."
I step in, voice cold and calm. "We don't alienate assets because we're insecure about their bite."
Marco's smirk fades under my gaze.
Luca taps again. "We ran the plates on the car from the dock footage. Custom make. Low production. Registered under a holder company in Prague."
I arch an eyebrow. "Tied to anyone?"
"Isobel Vargas," he says. "Former Black Scythe. Disappeared after the Valenti fire. No sightings, no movement, no chatter. Until now."
A beat passes. I feel it ripple across the table like a cold wind.
"Thought she was dead," Marco mutters. "Or hiding somewhere the shadows don't even bother to look."
Luca's gaze stays flat. "Apparently she's decided to resurface."
"And go after Valenti?" Marco scoffs. "What the hell does she want with her?"
Luca doesn't answer right away. Neither do I.
We all know the story. The Valentis burned three years ago. The girl vanished. No sign, no ransom. No body. Now she's back, and suddenly the ashes start shifting.
"It could be coincidence," Marco says, shrugging. "Or maybe she's trying to tie up loose ends."
Luca shakes his head. "This isn't cleanup. It's calculated."
I lean forward, steepling my hands. "Then we ask the real question…what did Amara survive that they didn't?"
That silences the room.
Because everyone at this table knows the Valentis weren't just another family. They were powerful. Respected. And someone made damn sure they burned.
If Amara made it out, and if Vargas is circling her now…it means something wasn't finished.
Or someone's afraid it will be.
I leave Luca and Marco behind, their voices low and clipped as the war room door shuts behind me.
The hallway is dim, narrow, and quiet in a way that's intentional. No footsteps. No music. Just the distant hum of security feeds and the low throb of bass bleeding through the main floor.
I head toward the lounge. She's waiting. I know it like instinct.
Inside, the room is cloaked in shadows, warm light from a single antique lamp casting long shapes across the leather furniture. The city glows beyond the windows–gold and cold.
Amara stands with her back to me, arms crossed, head tilted like she's listening to something only she can hear.
"You always sneak up on people like that?" she says without turning.
I move to the bar in the corner, pouring two fingers of bourbon. "Only when I'm not sure if they'll try to shoot me again."
She huffs a dry breath. I set the glass on the table beside her, but she doesn't move to take it.
"I don't drink with men I don't trust," she says.
"Then it's going to be a long night."
She finally turns, leaning back against the windowsill. Her eyes flick from the glass to me, sharp and unreadable.
"Tell me something, Moretti." Her voice is cool, but there's something coiled beneath it. "You knew my family. You were there. Was Black Scythe behind the fire?"
I don't answer immediately. Because I don't know for certain.
Because if they were there, and they're resurfacing now, then this isn't about territory. It's a purge.
"I don't have hard proof," I tell her. "But if I had to bet? Yeah. They vanished after your house was burned, and now they've resurfaced with a new name and the same brand of bloodshed."
She nods slowly, more to herself than to me.
"They have Lorenzo," she says, her voice lower.
I study her face. She's not asking for comfort. She's testing me – seeing what I believe.
"You think he's still alive?" I ask.
She doesn't hesitate. "Yeah. His body was never found. I don't care how long it's been. I knew how to disappear, and so did he. Only difference is they got to him before he could. I'd know if he was gone."
I don't argue. But I don't agree, either.
"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe they're using that hope to bait you. Pull you out. Make you reckless."
Her jaw tightens. "And it's working."
Silence stretches around the space between us. I let it.
Finally, she breaks it. "Someone talked."
I nod once. "Yeah."
She steps toward me, arms still crossed but her gaze locked. "You sure you vet your people or just hand out secrets like party favors?"
I let the shot land, hitting me right in the chest. I deserve it.
"The only people who knew you were in that safehouse were on my inner circle." My voice is low, cold. "And trust me, I'm already tearing through every call, every shift, every message. I'll find the leak."
"And when you do?" she asks.
"I'll make it hurt."
She watches me, eyes dark. Not impressed. Not afraid. Just tired.
"Good," she says. "Because if you don't, I will."
I almost smile. She says it like a promise.
She moves toward the door, but pauses just before she reaches it.
"You think they're trying to finish what they started?"
I meet her eyes. "If Black Scythe was behind that fire, and they know you're alive now, then yeah. They're not interested in mercy. They want the Valenti line erased."
Her mouth twitches. Not fear—just steel.
"You act like you know what I am," she says. "But you don't."
Not anymore.
"No," I admit. "But I know ghosts. And you don't come back unless you've got unfinished business."
She holds my gaze for a long second. Then she nods once and slips out, quiet as smoke.
I stand there for a beat, the bourbon untouched, the window still fogged with her breath.
She thinks this is about Lorenzo. About answers.
But if she's not careful…they're going to make it about blood.
And I've got just enough of a conscience left to make sure it's not hers.