The Funeral

The first bullet that killed Don Alessandro Moretti wasn't fired from a gun. It came as betrayal. And now, under gray skies and pouring rain, his daughter Amara stood over his coffin vowing blood for blood.

The cemetery in Naples was crowded, but not with mourners. No, these were men in dark coats and silk ties, wolves in sheep's clothing. Every handshake, every whispered condolence was a dagger wrapped in velvet. The Moretti name still commanded fear, but it no longer commanded loyalty.

Amara's heels sank into the wet earth, her black coat weighed heavy with rain. A lace veil shadowed half her face, and beneath it, her expression was carved in stone. She hadn't shed a single tear since the night of the murder. Pain had burned through her and hardened into something far more dangerous: resolve.

The priest's voice rose above the sound of falling rain. "...and may the Lord receive his soul with mercy."

She didn't listen. Her eyes scanned the crowd.

Politicians. Judges. Mafiosi from Rome, Sicily, Milan. Men who had once sworn oaths to her father but now shuffled awkwardly, whispering behind umbrellas. Every one of them could have had a hand in his death. Every one of them would pay if she found out.

And then she saw him.

Luca Romano.

Tall. Immaculate. Standing beneath a black umbrella like a panther watching prey. His suit was pressed, his stance relaxed, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes were fixed on her.

Not the coffin. Not the ceremony. Just her.

Their gaze locked, and in that one second, the world fell silent. Rage boiled in her chest.

Did he know?

Did he know that her father's final breath ended with his name?

Did he come to mock her? Or to see if she would break?

She turned away, jaw clenched, fists tightening at her sides. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her crack.

"Sleep well, Papà," she whispered in Italian. "You won't rest long. Not until I bury him beside you."

The final prayers were spoken. The dirt was thrown. And the guests came forward, one by one.

Men with slick smiles kissed her gloved hand. Women gave pitying glances, their condolences dripping with insincerity. Amara nodded through it all, her heart frozen.

Until he came.

Luca.

He approached slowly, dismissing his guards with a glance. For a moment, it was just the two of them, face to face in the rain.

"Amara," he said softly, his voice like smoke and sin. "My condolences."

She looked up at him through her veil, her voice sharp and low. "Save your lies, Luca."

He didn't flinch. He took another step closer. Close enough that she could smell the rain on his coat, the cologne that hadn't changed since the last time he stood beside her in another life.

"You think I had something to do with this?"

"I don't think," she whispered. "I know."

He studied her. Not like a man looking at a woman. Like a chess master analyzing a move.

Then he leaned in, so close his breath touched her cheek.

"Then come for me," he murmured. "But remember who taught you to aim."

With that, he walked away, the black umbrella tilting in the rain.

Enzo, her father's longtime consigliere, appeared at her side the moment Luca was gone.

"He's bold to show up here," Enzo muttered.

"He wanted me to see him," Amara replied. "Wanted to get in my head."

"Did he?"

She looked at the casket one last time, then shook her head.

"No," she said. "He got in my way. Now I know who to shoot first."

---

That night, Villa Moretti was quiet. Too quiet. The walls held echoes of a man who once roared with laughter in these halls, whose commands turned tides, who ruled Naples like a king.

Now, the king was dead. And his daughter sat alone at his desk.

Stacks of files. Names. Territories. Unpaid debts. Weapons routes. Loyal soldiers. Suspected traitors.

A map of Naples spread before her, marked in red and black. She placed a chess piece on the board—a queen.

Amara.

"Donna Amara," said Enzo, entering the study with a fresh report.

She looked up. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but burning with clarity.

"The lawyer says the transition's official," he said. "The seat is yours."

She nodded once.

"Any word from Palermo?"

"Silence. Which means they're waiting to see if you fall."

She stood and walked to the window. Rain still tapped against the glass.

"They'll be disappointed."

Enzo hesitated. "There's more. You should see this."

He handed her a file. Photos. A CCTV still of the alley where her father was ambushed. The shadows showed three attackers. One wore a pintiny but visible. The Romano crest.

Amara's hands tightened around the photo.

"He did it," she said. "Or he ordered it. Either way... this is war."

Enzo nodded grimly. "We'll prepare."

"No," she said. "We strike."

The next morning, the papers read: "DON MORETTI LAID TO REST."

But in Naples, the underworld whispered another headline:

**THE QUEEN HAS RISEN.**