Sarah Kane's POV
I traced my fingers along the dusty picture frames that lined the hallway of our old home. Twenty years of memories trapped behind glass. A life I'd buried along with an empty coffin.
The house creaked around me, settling into its bones like an old woman. Like me. I paused at the photo of the boys—Elijah and Adrian, twelve years old, gap-toothed grins, arms slung around each other. Twins in blood, opposites in spirit. Even then.
Outside, the morning sun cast long shadows through dirty windows. In the distance, I could hear the faint pop of gunfire—Costa's remaining loyalists making a last stand. Foolish. We'd prepared for this. For everything.
I moved to the window, watching smoke rise from the east side of the property where the first explosive had detonated. Right on
