Rome was dressed in mourning.
Black banners draped across the gates of the Romano estate. A line of luxury cars snaked into the courtyard. The city’s underworld royalty had come to pay their “respects.”
But the man they were burying didn’t exist.
It was all a farce. A ceremony meant to draw out enemies and seal alliances in shadow.
And Marco Romano stood at the altar, playing the grieving father.
Soaked in crocodile tears.
Preaching loyalty.
Plotting murder.
He didn’t know that the fire was already in the pews.
And it wore heels.
Alessia stepped out of the car in a black veil and floor-length lace. The press didn’t recognize her — they hadn’t seen her in years.
But the guards?
They froze.
So did Marco when she entered the chapel.
His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked with fear.
