The compound gates groaned open as the truck rolled back into the Moretti stronghold, its tires splattered with blood and filth. The air was thick with the coppery scent of violence, and Ayla could feel the weight of a hundred eyes watching from the shadows—guards, servants, and those who thrived on whispers and secrets. News of the ambush would spread fast. Faster still would the tale of how she had turned the tide.
Ayla sat in the truck bed, blood crusted on her hands, her knife still clutched tight like a lifeline. The city's rot clung to her skin, but it was nothing compared to the rot she felt inside. This wasn't victory. This was survival.
The truck stopped with a jolt. Before she could even gather her breath, the door to the main hall swung open, and there he was.
Luca Moretti.
Pristine in a tailored black shirt, his silver rings glinting under the low lights, not a hair out of place. The image of control. Power. Ruthlessness.
