Chapter Seven
Night fell hard over Palermo.
The streets above the catacombs buzzed with the chaos of a city oblivious to the storm brewing beneath its skin. Aria stood at the edge of an abandoned train station rooftop, wind tugging at her coat, thoughts racing like bullets.
In the last twenty-four hours, she'd escaped an arranged marriage, discovered secrets that could shatter empires, and agreed to sabotage the very legacy she was born into.
And yet, nothing terrified her more than what she was about to do next.
Below, in the courtyard of the Moretti villa, familiar guards paced in their black uniforms. Armed, alert. Unforgiving.
Nico stood beside her, holding a pair of binoculars. "Elena changes her shift in ten minutes. She'll take the west garden trail, just past the fountain. That's your window."
Aria nodded. "You sure she'll show?"
"She wouldn't risk it if she didn't believe in you."
That didn't mean Aria believed in herself.
But she had to try.
She slipped through the shadows, scaling the rusted fencing like a ghost. Every step toward the estate felt like reclaiming a piece of herself. The girl who once sat silently at dinner, trained to smile when her father dictated violence, was gone. In her place stood something colder. Sharper.
More dangerous.
At the hedge wall near the west trail, Aria crouched low and waited.
Then—footsteps.
A small figure approached, bundled in a housemaid's cloak. When the face emerged in the moonlight, Aria's breath caught.
Elena Cortez looked older than Aria remembered. Her once-black curls were now streaked with gray, her cheeks sunken, and her eyes shadowed with years of grief. But her presence… it was grounding. Like home.
"Elena," Aria whispered.
The woman froze—then recognition flooded her face. "Santa Maria," she gasped. "You're alive."
Aria leaped from her hiding place, wrapping her arms around her.
"They said you were dead. That Damiano—"
"He let me go."
Elena pulled back, cupping Aria's face with trembling hands. "Your mother… she would be proud."
A knot formed in Aria's throat. "I need your help, Elena. I'm going to stop the wedding. I need access to the vault."
Elena paled. "That room is blood-sealed by Cesare himself. Only his fingerprint or his heirs can unlock it."
"Then it's time I become more than just his heir."
Elena studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Tomorrow night. The family will be out for the pre-ceremony blessing at San Maurizio. I'll create a diversion. You'll have ten minutes inside."
Aria squeezed her hand. "Thank you."
"No," Elena said quietly, her eyes brimming. "Thank you. For finally doing what your mother never could."
Aria slipped back into the night with a new sense of purpose, unaware that a figure had been watching them from the rooftop of the nearby bell tower.
Lucien Vale.
Damiano's estranged older brother.
Unlike Damiano's aristocratic polish, Lucien was chaos-wrapped in elegance—taller, leaner, with jagged scars cutting across his collarbone and a smirk that never reached his eyes. He wore a tailored coat, but his boots were stained with dried blood.
He leaned against the spire, a sniper rifle at his feet, earpiece buzzing with static.
"She's in," he muttered. "The girl's playing rebel now."
A voice crackled through his earpiece—low, calculated.
"Good. Let her dance. The closer she gets to the truth, the better."
Lucien's lips curved. "And if she finds out what really happened to her mother?"
A pause.
"Then she'll do what we've been waiting for."
Lucien turned to the city lights, eyes narrowing. "You still think she's the key to bringing Cesare down?"
"No," the voice replied.
"She's the key to destroying him."
Night fell hard over Palermo.
The city breathed with a cold hum—car horns, whispers from balconies, the sharp echo of distant police sirens. But the real war was happening in the shadows, beneath gilded mansions and cathedral domes. And Aria Moretti was done hiding from it.
She stood on the rooftop of an abandoned train depot overlooking the Moretti estate, a cold wind slicing across her face. Palermo's skyline glittered behind her, a cruel reminder of how beautiful a prison could look from far away.
Beside her, Nico knelt, scanning the estate below through a pair of stolen military-grade binoculars. His face, often relaxed with sardonic amusement, was now carved in hard lines.
"She walks the same route every night. Starts from the south garden, circle the fountain, then cuts through the back gate to the servants' corridor."
Aria folded her arms. "You're sure she still works for my father?"
Nico handed her the binoculars. "He keeps her close. Loyal servants are harder to find these days."
Aria raised them, zeroing in on the western garden. The estate hadn't changed. The marble lions still stood at attention along the outer fences. The inner courtyard glowed from antique lanterns, their soft light disguising the cold-blooded operations that took place within those stone walls.
She spotted a thin figure walking briskly down the side path. Her heart jolted.
"Elena."
Elena Cortez had raised Aria during her mother's slow descent into madness. She'd taught her to walk in heels, how to conceal fear behind a smile, how to read the men in the room and know who could be played—and who had to be destroyed.
Now Elena moved with a limp, her frame slighter than Aria remembered, wrapped in a thick servant's cloak. Her graying curls were hidden beneath a faded scarf, and she looked older—marked by years of silent suffering under Cesare's reign.
"She looks…" Aria swallowed, "tired."
"She's still loyal to you," Nico said quietly. "More than you know."
Aria dropped the binoculars, pulling her coat tight. "I'm going in."
The climb down was swift and practiced. She hit the ground running and darted toward the overgrown hedgerow bordering the estate. Every step felt like cutting a deeper line into her old life, the obedient daughter bleeding away with each breath.
She waited in the dark, heart thudding as Elena's footsteps approached.
"Elena," she whispered.
The woman stopped, breath catching.
Aria emerged from the shadows slowly. The older woman's eyes widened, hands trembling at her sides. "Santa Maria," she choked. "Is it truly you?"
Aria stepped forward, her voice cracking. "It's me."
For a moment, time collapsed. Elena rushed to her, wrapping trembling arms around her shoulders. Aria let herself be held, let the familiarity soothe the tempest brewing in her chest.
"They said you were dead. That Damiano—"
"He let me go."
Elena pulled back, tears glistening in her eyes. "You're risking everything coming back here."
"I didn't come back," Aria said. "I'm here to end it."
Elena stared, stunned.
"I need access to the vault room. I need to know what Cesare's hiding."
Elena's face twisted in grief. "That place… Aria, the vault is sealed by your father's fingerprint and retinal scan. You won't get in."
"Maybe not yet. But if I can access the hallway system—"
"I can give you the code to the outer corridor. But after that, you'll be on your own. The inner chamber… you'll need something more."
Aria hesitated. "What do you mean?"
Elena's voice dropped to a whisper. "Your mother left something behind. A pendant. She said one day when you were ready, it would guide you. I've hidden it all these years. I'll get it to you."
Aria gripped her hand. "Thank you, Elena."
Elena's expression softened. "You have her fire now. Maybe even more."
As Aria disappeared back into the night, she didn't notice the glint of steel high above—reflected in the eyes of the man who watched her from the bell tower of the old monastery across the street.
Lucien Vale.
Damiano's older half-brother.
Lean and angular, Lucien had the kind of presence that crawled under your skin and stayed there. A jagged scar split his left brow, and his black coat hung loosely over a body built from violence. Where Damiano moved with elegance, Lucien radiated decay. Like a nobleman left too long in the dirt.
He held a sniper rifle, resting idly against the stone ledge. His boots, caked in blood, didn't match the tailored suit he wore underneath. But nothing about Lucien ever matched.
He lifted his earpiece and spoke into it.
"She made contact. Elena's helping her."
A voice answered—a deep, serpentine tone: "Good. The cracks are widening."
Lucien raised a brow. "You're really placing the fate of this war on a girl?"
"She's not a girl anymore," the voice replied. "She's the weapon Cesare created—and the one that will destroy him."
Lucien chuckled softly. "Let's hope she doesn't break before the fun starts."
He turned, fading into the shadows just as the cathedral bells tolled midnight.