It was a private cremation.
No cameras.
No mourners.
Just Linda… and the children.
—
A week had passed since the cathedral siege.
Alex had survived—but disappeared into guarded silence, leaving behind only bloodstains and questions.
Letisha's body was never claimed. Her cartel fractured within 48 hours.
The world kept turning.
But Linda stood still—watching flame devour what little remained of the empire that nearly consumed her.
She held the urn as the last ember flickered.
Then knelt beside the children—orphans funded by secret donations from DeLuca accounts.
They didn't understand politics.
But they understood grief.
And she understood legacy.
—
They drove to the cliffs.
The same place where the war began.
The sea roared below, indifferent.
Linda stepped to the edge,
