The ride back to the safehouse was silent, except for the distant hum of sirens echoing behind them—like ghosts howling at the wake of war.
Sienna didn’t speak.
She stared out the window as Palermo burned in her periphery.
The smoke rising from the Caligari estate was more than a warning.
It was a declaration.
The Sovereign had risen.
Luciano’s fingers flexed against the leather seat. He was watching her again, not with concern—but with reverence.
Like something ancient had awakened, and he was still adjusting to the force of it.
“You didn’t flinch,” he said softly. “Not once.”
Sienna turned her head toward him. “They’ve flinched enough for me.”
Ari smirked faintly from the front seat.
“She’s going to unmake their entire bloodline. One move at a time.”
“No,” Sienna correcte
