Chapter 1: The Funeral
The rain came down like a blessing and a curse.
Heavy, cold, relentless. As if the heavens wept for the soul of Don Alessandro Moretti or tried to wash away the blood that stained his legacy.
Amara Moretti stood at the center of the cemetery, dressed in a long black coat, her hair pinned back under a lace veil that shrouded half her face. Her heels were buried in mud, but her stance was unshaken. She had not cried since the night of the murder. Not one tear. Her pain had been forged into steel.
Dozens gathered under umbrellas, most in black. Mafiosi from Rome, Sicily, Milan. Political figures who owed her father favors. Men who smiled politely but had blood under their fingernails. Every one of them could be an enemy. Every one of them could have had a hand in his death.
The priest's voice droned on. "...and may the Lord receive his soul with mercy..."
Amara wasn't listening. Her eyes scanned the crowd from behind the veil. Searching.
Then she saw him.
Luca Romano.
Standing beneath a black umbrella, surrounded by his men like a lion in a sea of vultures. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes those sharp, storm-gray eyes were on her.
It's not the casket. Not the priest. Just her.
Their gaze locked for one endless second. Her blood boiled. Her chest tightened.
Did he know?
Did he know that her father's last breath had ended with his name?
Did he come here to mock her? To see if she'd break?
Amara turned back to the coffin, her fists clenched at her sides.
"Sleep well, Papà," she whispered in Italian. "You won't rest long. Not until I bury him beside you."
When the final prayer ended, guests filed past to offer their condolences. Amara accepted them with grace and silence, her eyes icy and unreadable. Every man kissed her hand. Every woman offered pity.
But then came Luca.
He approached slowly, alone.
"Amara," he said, his voice low and smooth. "My condolences."
She looked up at him through her veil. Her voice was calm but laced with quiet venom.
"Save your lies, Luca."
He didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You think I had something to do with this?"
"I don't think," she whispered. "I know."
He studied her for a long moment. Then, with a dark smile, he leaned in and murmured:
"Then come for me. But remember who taught you to aim."
Then he walked away, leaving her standing in the rain, fury tightening every muscle in her body.
Let the war begin.