The dining hall looked like it belonged in a cursed cathedral — long table set for a pantheon of liars, lit by chandeliers that had once belonged to a Roman cardinal with a penchant for poison. The candles flickered like they knew too much.
Amara entered behind Matteo, both armed and impossibly calm. A staff of silent servers moved like dancers in a dream, laying silver and pouring Chianti as if blood weren't about to stain the walls.
Every chair was filled except one — hers.
At the far end sat Don Salvatore Castagna — gaunt, carnivorous, dressed like a vulture in silk. His fingers glittered with family rings, his smile was hollow as an empty tomb.
"Ah," Salvatore said, rising. "The D'Alessandro prince and his… flame."
Amara didn't flinch. "Careful. Flames tend to spread."
A few around the table coughed laughs into their napkins. Others just watched her, eyes calculating. One woman — sleek, with a venomous mouth and an emerald choker — narrowed her gaze like a knife.
That would be Giulietta Castagna, Salvatore's niece. Former ballerina, current assassin. Amara had read the file.
She took her seat without asking, back straight, expression unreadable. Beside her, Matteo poured her wine like a ritual.
The meal began with roasted artichokes stuffed with black truffle and old grudges.
Salvatore lifted his glass. "To peace between wolves."
"To peace," Matteo said smoothly.
"To wolves," Amara added, sipping without blinking.
Conversation slithered around the table. Deals cloaked in metaphors. Threats tucked into compliments. Amarachi said little, letting her silence bloom like nightshade.
She noticed three things quickly:
1. One of the men was sweating, though the room was cool.
2. Giulietta never touched her food.
3. There were no knives laid out at her setting. Hers was the only place with just a fork and a spoon.
They didn't trust her.
Good.
Halfway through the lamb course, a voice rose — young, male, biting.
"You D'Alessandros think you can outlive every war. But fire doesn't care about legacy."
The speaker: Luca Castagna, Salvatore's bastard nephew. Spoiled. Eager to bleed something.
Amara's fork scraped her plate like a violin string. She didn't look at him, just spoke.
"And water doesn't care about blood. But it still drowns kings."
Luca stood, slamming a fist on the table. Giulietta said something sharp in Italian. Matteo remained seated.
But Amara rose — slowly, gracefully.
"If you want to threaten someone," she said to Luca, "don't shout. Whisper. It scares people more."
Luca moved first. A blur of motion and ego.
She pivoted. Fork in hand.
It sank into the soft space just beneath his collarbone before anyone could draw breath.
He staggered, gasped — not a killing blow, but close.
Gasps rippled. A servant dropped a plate.
Amara stepped back, calm as sunrise.
"Now," she said, voice like silk dipped in cyanide, "shall we finish dinner, or start a war?"
Salvatore stood, clapping once — the sound brutal in the silence.
"Well played, Miss Diri-Owei."
She smiled like a locked door.
"Not yet, Don Castagna. But soon."
Matteo looked at her with something unreadable. Not fear. Not lust. Something deeper.
Recognition.
She wasn't fire.
She was the match.