Chapter Three
They say silence is a sanctuary.
But sometimes, silence means you're already being hunted.
•
The old chapel sat like a secret beneath the sun-weathered stone, wild olive branches rustling in the warm Sicilian breeze, and morning birds beginning their hesitant calls. It was the kind of place where prayers lingered in cracks and ghosts watched from broken stained glass.
And it was no longer empty.
A dozen yards beyond the outer grove, Damiano crouched behind an ancient tree, his tailored black coat flecked with dust and bits of bark. One gloved hand rested on his knee; the other held a scope—its lens trained on the chapel's cracked window, where Aria stood in profile, sunlight touching her face like a lover.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"Positive ID," murmured the voice in his earpiece. "Visual on Nico Moretti too. No other heat signatures."
"Keep it that way," Damiano replied calmly. "I want the perimeter sealed. No one goes in unless I say so."
"You want them taken out?"
His lips curved slowly. "No."
A pause.
"I want her to see me first."
He lowered the scope.
Gray eyes glinting, he rose and stepped back, disappearing once more into the grove's shadows.
•
Inside the chapel, Aria leaned over the table as Nico unwrapped a small metal case, revealing a compact drive reader and a reinforced laptop. She hadn't slept. Not really. Every time her eyes closed, she saw flames, or her father's face… or Damiano's.
Cold. Calculating. Controlled.
"You said this chip holds everything," she whispered.
Nico nodded, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Her full access logs. Surveillance footage. Transcripts of encrypted calls. Maybe even the name of the man who pulled the trigger that night."
Aria swallowed the lump in her throat. "And if Damiano's in them?"
He paused. "Then we'll know who he is."
Her fingers brushed the edge of the pendant. "I already do."
She didn't say it aloud, but her mind was racing. The way Damiano had looked at her at the villa. The way he let her go. It wasn't mercy. It was a calculation. And somewhere deep in her chest, past the pain and betrayal, past the ache for her mother and the lie of her father's protection—was rage.
A slow, simmering rage that curled like smoke around her spine.
She stood abruptly. "I need air."
Nico didn't stop her.
She stepped outside and blinked against the light.
And froze.
A shadow moved at the edge of the grove.
Aria turned sharply, scanning the trees. "Nico—"
Then she saw him.
Standing halfway between the chapel and the road.
Damiano.
Alone.
She went still.
He didn't move toward her.
He just… watched.
Their eyes locked across the clearing, the wind tugging at his coat, her hair whipping around her shoulders like dark fire.
Her mouth dried.
How the hell had he found her?
She didn't call out. Didn't run. She just stared, waiting for him to speak.
But he didn't.
Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled something out—and tossed it underhand across the grass.
It hit the ground at her feet with a soft thud.
She looked down.
A single photograph.
Her mother.
And Damiano—standing beside her.
Years ago. Before the war. Before everything.
She snapped her gaze back up—but he was gone.
Just… gone.
•
Inside the chapel, Nico was still working, his face tight with concentration. He barely noticed her come in until she slammed the door behind her.
"Nico," she said sharply. "He's here."
"What?" He rose instantly, hand already going to his gun. "Where—"
"Gone now. But he was watching us. He left this." She shoved the photo toward him.
His brows furrowed. He took one look—and paled.
"You recognize this?" she asked.
Nico stared at the image. "That's not possible. This was destroyed. I saw it burned with the rest of her files the night she died."
"Apparently not." Her voice was flat. "Damiano had it."
Nico swore in Italian, low and violent.
"I think he's playing a game," Aria said. "He wanted me to know he was here. That he sees us. Maybe even that he's a step ahead."
Nico clenched his jaw. "Then we need to move. Now."
She hesitated. "And go where? He'll follow. No matter where we run."
He looked at her. "Then maybe it's time we stop running."
She blinked.
"Are you saying we go back?"
"I'm saying… you go public." Nico's voice was razor-sharp now. "We leak the files before he can contain them. We put everything in motion. No more shadows. We bring him into the light."
•
Elsewhere, back on the estate, Cesare Moretti was facing his storm.
A faceless call had reached him an hour ago. No demands. Just static, and then: "Check the news tomorrow."
The blood drained from his face.
He knew that voice.
Lucien.
Dead for ten years. Buried by Moretti's hands.
But no corpse had ever been recovered.
And now—his ghost was calling.
•
That night, on an encrypted news stream buried deep in the dark web, something changed.
Nico uploaded the first file.
It was grainy surveillance footage.
Dated ten years ago.
Inside the Moretti villa.
It showed Cesare arguing with a woman.
Her voice—Aria's mother.
In the final seconds of the clip… she turned, as if sensing something.
The door burst open.
A young man entered.
Sharp suit. Gray eyes.
Damiano Rizzo.
Gun drawn.
•
The screen went black.
But the damage had begun.
By morning, the entire underground would be whispering.
And Aria Moretti would no longer be the daughter of a don.
She would be the spark that set their world on fire.
•
Outside the chapel, a storm rolled over the coast.
And somewhere beneath the thunder, a whisper rose in the dark—
"Let the vow be broken."
The safe house was tucked beneath the shell of an abandoned vineyard in Castellammare del Golfo—stone walls half-eaten by ivy, windows boarded from the inside. From the outside, it looked like rot and ruin. But beneath the cellar floor, down a hidden staircase disguised beneath crates of spoiled wine, was a bunker laced with steel, surveillance monitors, and weapons lined like books on shelves.
Aria hadn't spoken in nearly an hour.
She sat curled in a cracked leather chair, legs pulled up beneath her, a blanket draped across her shoulders. Nico hadn't offered it—she'd found it folded in the corner and wrapped it around herself like armor. The dim light above buzzed gently, casting a halo over her dark hair, still windblown from the escape.
Across the room, Nico stripped off his blood-streaked jacket and tossed it into the corner. Beneath it, he wore a black thermal shirt that clung to lean muscle and hinted at more scars than she remembered. His jaw was tight. He moved like a soldier in a war he never left.
"What is this place?" Aria finally asked.
Nico didn't look at her. He was loading a pistol, his motions methodical, focused. "Safehouse. Belonged to Angelo Grimaldi. He owed me a favor before he vanished."
"Vanished?"
"Got on the wrong side of Cesare," he said without pause. "Or the right side, depending on how dead you like your friends."
She flinched.
Nico paused. His eyes flicked to her. "Sorry. I forget sometimes—you're not used to truth spoken plainly."
"I'm not used to being kidnapped either."
"You jumped."
"I didn't know you'd be there!"
"I told you," he said, setting the gun down with a sharp clack. "I never stopped watching."
She stood. "Why?"
He turned toward her fully then, and for a heartbeat, there was silence between them. Not tension—something deeper. Older. His eyes, those storm-washed blues, locked on hers.
"Because you were never supposed to be part of the deal."
Aria's breath hitched.
Before she could respond, a voice echoed from behind the steel door at the far end of the bunker.
"You brought her here?" A woman. Sharp, dry, and unmistakably annoyed.
Nico moved to the keypad and entered a code. The door hissed open.
In stepped a woman in her late thirties, lean and tall, with dark copper hair pulled into a no-nonsense braid. She wore tactical gear—combat boots, a utility belt, and a flak jacket that didn't hide the faint scar running down her neck. Her eyes, cold gray and calculating, flicked to Aria with open distrust.
"Aria, this is Siena Volkov," Nico said. "Former GRU. Ex-assassin. Now she keeps me from doing anything stupider than usual."
"Nice to meet you," Aria said flatly.
Siena raised an eyebrow. "She's polite. That's new."
"She's a guest."
"She's a liability."
Aria stepped forward. "I'm also standing right here."
Siena tilted her head, amused. "So you are."
Nico moved between them. "Enough. Siena, we need to decode the rest of the flash drive. And I need you to set up recon on the villa."
"Villa's locked down tight. Moretti guards are everywhere. They've called in Leone."
Nico's face hardened. "You're sure?"
"He's two clicks from the western ridge. I intercepted comms an hour ago."
Aria frowned. "Who's Leone?"
Siena answered. "Cesare's shadow. Used to be your mother's guard. After she died, he vanished. Now he only comes out when Cesare wants a clean death."
The room seemed to darken.
Aria sank back into the chair, her mind reeling. "Why would he call him now?"
"Because," Nico said, jaw tight, "you have something Cesare wants back. And he's done pretending you're his daughter."
She looked at him sharply. "He raised me."
"He groomed you," Nico said. "He carved out the parts of you that questioned him. And when you started to, he sent me to kill you."
Silence fell like a blade.
"You?" she whispered.
"I refused. So he put out the hit on both of us. Only you weren't supposed to know."
Aria felt the room tilt.
Her world was burning down one sentence at a time.
Three Hours Later — Palermo
Cesare Moretti paced his study like a lion caged. Smoke curled from the Cuban cigar in his fingers, his other hand clenched around a glass of untouched whiskey. The room was paneled in walnut, and decorated with oil paintings of ancestors whose sins rivaled his own.
He didn't look at the man seated across from him until he finally said, "Tell me you found them."
The man—tall, sallow, and dressed in a charcoal suit that blended with the shadows—nodded once.
Leone D'Argento.
He was as mythic as he was feared. Former Carabinieri turned executioner, loyal to no flag but Cesare's. His face was lean, weathered by decades of blood, and the twin silver rings on his hands were said to have belonged to two of his victims—brothers who betrayed the Don.
"No visual yet," Leone said. "But I have eyes on the western coast. They'll surface. He'll make a mistake."
Cesare exhaled smoke. "If he has the pendant, he'll go to the source."
Leone's gaze darkened. "Then we need to cut the source before he connects the rest."
Cesare walked to the painting behind his desk and pulled it aside, revealing a wall safe. He unlocked it, pulling out a folder marked in red: ROSALIA.
"Burn it," he said.
Leone didn't flinch. "Even the daughter?"
"Especially the daughter," Cesare said coldly. "She's not a daughter. She's a witness."
Back in the Safehouse — 4:13 A.M.
Aria couldn't sleep. Her body ached, her mind was on fire, and the images from the flash drive haunted her. Nico sat at the far end of the room, typing rapidly on a custom-rigged laptop, lips pressed in concentration.
Siena had disappeared an hour ago to secure more supplies and tap into the Palermo surveillance grid. She moved like a ghost and returned like a storm. Aria still wasn't sure whether she wanted to stab her or trust her.
Aria moved to Nico's side. "What are you looking for?"
He didn't glance up. "The rest of the drive is encrypted. Military-grade. I cracked one key. It led to files linked to Project Baratto."
She frowned. "What's that?"
Nico stopped typing.
He looked at her. "It was the operation name used during your mother's final months."
Aria's heart pounded. "You think it's connected to her death?"
"I don't think," Nico said. "I know."
He opened a folder. A scanned document appeared on-screen. It was a memo—dated nine months before her mother died—signed by an unnamed party and stamped with an elite crest Aria didn't recognize.
She leaned in.
There was one line highlighted in red.
"Target: Rosalia Moretti. Terminate before leak reaches Interpol."
"No," Aria whispered. "No, she died in a car accident. Everyone said—"
"They made it look like an accident," Nico said. "But this—this is the proof. Your father knew. He sanctioned it."
A sharp knock jolted them both.
Not at the door—but from the floor vent.
Nico froze. "She's early."
Siena emerged seconds later, stepping out from the shadows like a ghost.
"I tracked something," she said, tossing a small folded map onto the table. "A vault. Off the grid. Under a winery, your father closed after Rosalia's death. The property's never been sold."
Aria stared at the map. "You think… what, there's more there?"
"I think," Siena said slowly, "your mother left behind more than memories."
Nico locked eyes with Aria. "Then we go."
Two Nights Later — The Vineyard Vault
The ride was silent.
Nico drove with surgical focus, Siena in the backseat scanning frequencies on a handheld device. Aria stared out the window as vineyards blurred by. The stars above were brilliant, untouched by the city's glow.
They reached the vineyard just before midnight.
The building was swallowed in vines, a cathedral of rot and memory. The gate creaked open with a push. Siena swept ahead, scanning the grounds with a modified EMF reader.
"Underground tunnel's here," she whispered, pointing to a collapsed section of the courtyard.
Nico pried open a trapdoor beneath the crumbling stone fountain. A ladder stretched into darkness.
One by one, they descended.
The vault was buried thirty feet underground—its entrance sealed by a biometric scanner. Siena pried open the panel and rewired it in under ninety seconds.
The door hissed open.
Inside was a chamber of secrets. Steel cabinets. Locked crates. Dust layered over polished marble. And at the center—a single leather-bound journal atop a pedestal.
Aria stepped forward, hands trembling, and opened it.
It was her mother's.
Filled with sketches, letters, and one line scrawled over and over:
"Trust no lion."
Aria's voice cracked. "She knew."
"She tried to warn you," Nico said softly.
A sound echoed in the tunnel behind them.
Siena spun. "We've got company."
Outside, black SUVs screeched to a halt. Armed men in Moretti uniforms poured out, rifles raised.
And leading them—
Leone D'Argento.
Aria's breath caught.
Nico grabbed her wrist. "We're not fighting them here. We run."
They burst out of the tunnel as bullets exploded around them. Siena lobbed a smoke grenade behind them. They made it to the treeline just as the vault was consumed by fire.
Aria looked back once.
And saw Leone staring straight at her through the smoke.
No emotion.
No mercy.
Only purpose.
Later That Night — Safehouse Ruins
They couldn't return.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Castellammare, the safehouse had been torched to ash.
The bunker? Caved in.
Aria stared at the smoke rising into the sky like a funeral pyre.
"We have nothing left," she whispered.
"We have each other," Nico said.
She turned. "And what happens now? My father's hunting us. Damiano might be tracking us. Your contacts are dying or disappearing. We have no allies."
"We have Siena," Nico said. "And we have something more dangerous than weapons."
She narrowed her eyes.
"We have the truth."
Across the Sea — Rome
Inside a high-rise suite with mirrored walls and blood-red floors, a man in an ivory suit stirred his espresso. His name was Matteo Falcone—one of the last living members of the Syndicate Triumvirate.
His secretary entered, pale.
"Sir. It's started. Moretti's daughter is on the run. With D'Angelo."
Matteo didn't flinch.
He sipped his espresso.
"Good," he said.
"Send word to Damiano Rizzo."
The secretary froze. "But… the treaty—"
"Has expired," Matteo said calmly. "Let them tear each other apart."
He looked out the window at the Roman skyline.
"And when the dust settles, we'll decide who wears the crown."