The fire in Matteo's study crackled with unnatural precision, as if it had been told who not to interrupt.
Amara sat, upright, one knee crossed elegantly over the other, dressed in matte black silk. She wore no jewelry tonight. Only her silence.
Matteo leaned against the fireplace, eyes half-shadowed, the gold ring on his finger tapping against the marble hearth. That sound—sharp, consistent—wasn't impatience. It was calculation.
"They asked for you by name," he said finally.
"Good," Amara replied, unblinking. "Means I'm relevant."
"It means they've done their homework. And they think you're… bendable."
He turned to her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. The cool strategist gave way to the man who remembered her laughing, barefoot, with blood on her collar. The girl who'd asked him once if monsters could be loyal.
Matteo moved to a drawer in the carved walnut desk. From it, he pulled a slim black velvet box.
"I swore I wouldn't let you walk into this city unarmed." He opened it. Nestled inside was a gleaming obsidian blade, no longer than a finger, embedded in a garter of lace and leather. A woman's weapon. Intimate. Meant for one kill.
Amara's lips curved, just barely.
"How sentimental," she murmured, lifting it out. She slipped the garter up her thigh under her dress. The cool kiss of the blade against her skin made her breath hitch—just once.
"You'll be outnumbered," Matteo said. "They don't play fair."
"Neither do I."
The city had changed, but the scent of jasmine remained. It crept over the walls, unfurling in the dusk like a secret trying to be heard.
Amara walked alone.
A single escort might've suggested she needed protection. A squad would've declared a challenge. Alone, she was a whisper. Dangerous only if you knew the old songs.
She traced the path toward the Grove, eyes scanning for sigils. The Castagnas had a habit of carving their warnings into stone, as if afraid of forgetting who they were. There—on the gatepost—an olive branch cracked down the middle. Rejection. A reminder that peace had been offered once… and spat on.
She slowed, hand brushing a low wall. As a child, she'd seen her grandmother bury a ring beneath that stone. A "memory anchor," she'd called it. That was the thing about Amara's bloodline: they didn't keep diaries. They planted them.
The grove's iron gates creaked open, and the city's noise faded like a curtain falling.
Lanterns floated above, caught in the branches like fireflies too proud to blink. The scent of cigar smoke wove through the air—sweet, laced with something more acidic underneath.
Five chairs formed a loose semicircle around a marble table. Four of them occupied.
Nico Castagna sat in the center, wearing pearl gray and boredom like it was a crown. His shoes were freshly shined. His knife sat on the table like an afterthought.
To his left, a woman in burnt orange robes with gold-rimmed glasses too heavy for her nose. A botanist, Amara remembered. Killer with roots.
To his right, a boy who couldn't be older than sixteen. Silent, gloved. He watched her like a student watches a problem.
And the fourth? An empty seat. For her.
Amara approached with a grace trained into her marrow.
"Miss Diri-Owei," Nico said, as if tasting her name. "The last living witness of the Lagos Vault Massacre."
She raised a brow. "Funny. I was told you don't like ghost stories."
"Oh, I don't. But I love survivors. They tend to be more… obedient."
She didn't respond. Instead, she walked past the seat they'd left open and stood behind it.
"I don't sit unless I know what I'm agreeing to."
The woman in orange let out a laugh—low, dry, real.
"Smart," she said. "You'll need that."
Nico nodded toward the boy. He reached into his satchel and placed a vial on the table.
It was small. Iridescent. Sealed with black wax and bound in twine.
Amara didn't touch it.
She knew that scent: faintly citrus, with the metallic tang of ironwood. Berber root. Scorpion-oil. Blood resin.
The mixture wasn't just lethal—it was symbolic. The same formula used during the Old Trials to cleanse traitors. And here they were, offering it to her like communion.
"Who's the target?" she asked.
"Giulietta di Rossi," Nico replied smoothly. "You know her."
"Know of her."
"She killed your contact in Budapest. Fed him to her dogs."
Amara didn't blink. "So you want me to return the favor?"
"We want proof you're with us. Permanently."
Amara stepped closer to the vial. Leaned in, eyes never leaving Nico's.
"You're testing me. But you forgot one thing."
"Oh?"
"I'm the wrong girl to test."
She straightened. Let the silence stretch. Then she said in Yoruba, slow and deliberate:
> "Ẹ fi ipinnu yi silẹ, ki ẹ má bà a jé."
Withdraw your demand, or you will regret it.
Nico's smile didn't break, but the woman in orange shifted, ever so slightly.
Amara turned and walked away from the table, leaving the vial untouched.
She was almost to the gate when she heard the footsteps.
Not hurried. Not afraid. Just… small.
She turned.
A boy stood behind her. Ten, maybe eleven. Thin. Pale. He held a cassette tape in his hand like it was sacred.
No guards. No explanation. Just him.
He held it out.
She took it.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The boy smiled.
"You were supposed to be dead," she whispered.
His voice was barely audible, but it hit her like a blow.
"So were you."