Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Hall
That night, Villa Moretti was too quiet.
The kind of silence that crept in like smoke thick, choking, unnatural.
Amara moved through the grand halls of her childhood home with a glass of blood-red wine in her hand. Every painting on the wall, every crack in the marble, whispered memories. Her father's voice still echoed in the study, where he used to hold court like a king.
Now it was hers.
She stepped into the room and locked the door behind her. The fireplace glowed low, casting shadows across the leather chairs and oak shelves. She sat at the head of the long table, where Don Moretti once brokered deals with men twice his age and ten times as cruel.
A flash of memory struck: her father teaching her how to play chess.
"The queen," he said, moving the piece with pride, "is the most dangerous player on the board. Never forget that."
A soft knock pulled her back to the present.
"Come," she called.
Enzo entered, her father's most trusted lieutenant—and now hers. Loyal. Sharp. Old enough to have scars, but young enough to fight.
"We intercepted chatter," he said. "There's talk. About you. About revenge."
"Let them talk."
"There's more. Someone paid off the morgue assistant. Your father's autopsy files were copied. Stolen."
Amara's fingers tightened around her glass.
"Who?"
"We don't know. Yet. But Luca's name is being whispered in Palermo."
She stood abruptly, her voice cold as the stone walls. "Luca plays games. But he forgets who taught me the rules."
"And if he didn't kill your father?"
Her eyes snapped to Enzo's.
"Then he'll wish he had."