Chapter Eight
The pendant was heavier than Aria remembered.
It glinted under the broken streetlamp as she turned it over in her fingers—silver, oval, etched with faded filigree that looked almost floral. But it wasn't the surface design that haunted her. It was what lay inside. A miniature key, tucked behind the inner latch, and a tiny etched code too faint for the untrained eye.
Nico leaned against the passenger door of the black Alfa Romeo they'd stolen that morning. "If I'm right, that's not just sentimental jewelry."
"It was my mother's," Aria said, her voice tight. "Elena hid it in the old chapel beneath the Moretti archives."
Nico pushed off the car. "Then you better believe Cesare didn't want you to have it."
She looked at him. "Do you know what this key opens?"
He nodded. "Not yet. But I know where to start looking."
They drove in silence, the city lights bleeding through the windshield as they sped toward a part of Palermo that no one—especially not anyone tied to the mafia—dared enter without backup.
La Zona Morta.
The dead zone.
A desolate stretch of industrial ruins and burned-out buildings where criminals dumped what they didn't want to be found. Nico said it was where secrets went to rot. Aria suspected it was where hers would come alive.
They parked in front of a warehouse that sagged like it was mourning its own past. Faded graffiti marked its sides, but newer paint tagged the corner with a blood-red X. Nico touched the door cautiously before pushing it open.
Inside, the air stank of dust, oil, and copper. Dim light filtered through shattered skylights. In the middle of the space stood a towering figure, surrounded by an arsenal of weapons and open data terminals.
Aria froze. "Who the hell is that?"
Nico smirked. "That, sweetheart, is Alric."
The man turned.
Alric Edden was built like a Warhammer—broad shoulders, burn scars peeking out from under a tank top, and a tattoo sleeve that twisted from his collarbone to his knuckles. His eyes were mismatched—one pale blue, the other cybernetic, glowing faintly red.
When he spoke, his voice was gravel-soaked in whiskey. "So this is the firecracker Nico's been babysitting."
Aria stepped forward, unflinching. "I'm not a firecracker. I'm the detonator."
Alric's grin widened. "Good. You'll need that kind of confidence to survive the storm you're walking into."
He motioned toward a locked briefcase on the steel table. "The pendant. Let me see it."
Aria handed it over, watching as Alric connected it to a magnetic reader and pulled up several encrypted screens. Lines of code scrolled fast—too fast for her to follow.
Finally, Alric leaned back, whistling low. "This thing isn't just a key. It's a map."
"A map to what?"
"The Moretti's true legacy."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "You're saying Cesare has something bigger hidden?"
Alric nodded. "This pendant links to a biometric vault in Vienna. Hidden under the name Valenti Holdings. And it's been active recently. Very recently."
Aria's heart skipped. "But Vienna's outside our territory. Why would Cesare keep something there?"
"Because even he doesn't trust his own blood," Alric muttered. "Whatever's in that vault—financial records, weapons manifest, blackmail contracts—it's enough to cripple every rival family on this side of the continent."
Aria exhaled. "Or crown him as king of them all."
Alric unplugged the reader and handed the pendant back. "You're not just fighting for revenge anymore, girl. You're fighting for the inheritance no one told you about."
She looked between them. "Then it's time to take it back."
Back at the Moretti Estate
Damiano leaned over the antique desk in Cesare's study, the very air in the room coiled with tension. Behind him stood Enzo Falcone, his chief of internal security—newly promoted after the last one "resigned" under suspicious conditions.
Enzo was all sharp edges. Close-shaved head, surgical scars down his right cheek, and a military gait that made others get out of his way before he even moved. He held a folder out to Damiano.
"She made contact with Elena," he said simply.
Damiano didn't flinch. "Did Cesare find out?"
"Not yet. But if she continues down this path, he will."
Damiano's fingers tapped slowly against the desk. "And Lucien?"
Enzo hesitated. "He's watching her. And he's not reporting back to Cesare either."
That made Damiano pause. "He's waiting for her to make a move."
Enzo nodded. "Or for her to destroy herself."
Damiano closed the folder and rose to his full height. His tailored suit fit like a second skin, but his eyes—cold, calculating—betrayed a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
"Double security around the estate. Reassign the snipers to the western perimeter and keep Elena alive. No one touches her without my say-so."
"You're protecting her?" Enzo asked.
Damiano's expression darkened. "I'm protecting what's mine."
Elsewhere in Palermo
Lucien Vale stood on a rooftop balcony, cigarette burning between his fingers, eyes fixed on a photo in his palm.
It was Aria, seventeen years old, her face still innocent, but her gaze already haunted. He traced the outline of her jaw with his thumb, then crumpled the picture and flicked it off the edge.
"She doesn't know what she's become," he murmured.
Behind him, a woman stepped forward from the shadows. She wore a crimson blazer over a holster and had platinum blonde hair tied into a sleek braid.
Dr. Isolde Vermeer.
Surgeon. Psychologist. Professional manipulator.
"She's close to unlocking the vault," Isolde said. "You were right about the pendant."
Lucien smiled. "Cesare's daughter was always going to be his undoing. The question is—"
He turned toward her, eyes gleaming.
"Will she fall fast enough for us to catch her… or will she burn us all down with her?"