The night Alessia pulled the trigger, it didn’t feel like victory.
It felt like drowning.
She stood over the man’s body — one of Lorenzo’s inner circle, her pistol still warm in her hand. Blood pooled across the marble floor, trailing into the cracks like veins of war.
“I warned you,” she whispered, wiping the splatter from her cheek. “Every one of you will pay.”
Her men stood behind her, silent.
No one dared speak when Alessia Romano moved like this — possessed by grief, by fury, by the ghosts that wouldn’t stop whispering in her head.
She had lost too much to show mercy now.
Lorenzo stared at the empty chair in his war room. The chair she used to sit in — legs crossed, gaze amused, always calculating.
He poured himself a drink but didn’t take a sip.
The chaos was spreading.
His
