Blood Tastes Like Silence

Amara woke to the sound of her name.

Soft, hesitant.

"Donna Amara?"

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the filtered light spilling through the villa's high windows. She had fallen asleep on her father's leather chair, arms still wrapped around the case file she had been studying.

Enzo stood in the doorway, his expression guarded.

"I didn't want to wake you," he said. "But… there's news."

She sat up, rubbing the stiffness from her neck. "What kind?"

"Bad."

Of course.

He handed her a folded newspaper. The front page was stamped with a familiar headline:

**ROMANO CONSORTIUM CLAIMS NEW TERRITORY**

Below it, a photo of Luca shaking hands with a councilman from the southern districts. The same district her father had spent a year securing through blood, bribes, and diplomacy.

"They're making moves already," Enzo said. "And they're not hiding it."

Amara's jaw locked. "He's baiting me."

"He's testing you," Enzo corrected. "To see if you're your father's daughter... or just another heiress with too much silk and not enough steel."

She stood, folding the paper sharply. "Then we show him."

---

Villa Moretti wasn't just a home. It was a fortress. Behind its vine-covered walls were armories, escape tunnels, encrypted server rooms, and a private underground meeting hall known only to the inner circle.

That's where Amara called her first council.

The candlelight cast shadows over faces she had grown up seeing around her father's table. Men with thick mustaches and missing fingers. Women with sniper eyes and blades hidden in bracelets. Loyalty could not be measured by blood anymore—only by purpose.

She took the head seat. Her father's seat.

Silence.

Then Rocco, her head of intel, spoke. "Romano has expanded his reach into the southern docks. He's bribed the port workers and bought three warehouses. He's also meeting with a Russian intermediary."

Amara didn't blink. "What's the Russian's name?"

"Mikhail Sokolov."

She nodded. "My father once said if you feed a snake, don't turn your back on the meal."

A few people chuckled. She didn't.

"Let's gut the snake before it swallows us whole."

Later that night, Amara sat in her father's study, alone. The walls still smelled like his cigars and old leather. Her fingers traced the edge of his desk, where she'd once carved her name as a girl with a stolen knife.

A soft knock broke the quiet.

Chiara entered, her auburn hair tied back, tablet in hand.

"Got something," she said, sitting across from Amara. "Pulled traffic footage from the Portici district the night Don Moretti was killed. Three black SUVs moved through that area. Only one was registered."

She tapped the screen, pulling up an image.

A license plate. Traced back to a shell company owned by the Romano Group.

Amara stared at it. "How long before Luca figures out we know?"

Chiara shrugged. "Depends how loudly we play our next move."

"I want him to hear it like a shot."

Chiara smirked. "Then you'll love this."

She pulled up another file. "There's a private Romano shipment scheduled for tomorrow night. Weapons. Highly illegal. Highly traceable."

Amara leaned forward. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely. We intercept it, leak it to Interpol... and he bleeds."

Amara stood. Her decision came fast, without hesitation.

"Do it."

The next night, a sleek black car waited at the edge of the docks. Inside, Amara watched from behind tinted glass as a white cargo van pulled up to the marked coordinates. Men unloaded crates under cover of darkness.

Enzo sat beside her, a radio pressed to his ear. "Chiara has eyes on the driver. Rocco confirms they're loaded. Ten minutes until Interpol sweeps."

Amara didn't speak. She only watched.

The van rolled forward, vanishing into the warehouse.

Minutes passed.

Then came the flashing blue lights. Sirens pierced the night.

The Moretti team pulled out silently. No blood. No bullets. Just damage.

The next morning, Luca Romano woke up to the headlines:

**ROMANO GROUP UNDER FIRE FOR ILLEGAL ARMS IMPORT**

And beneath it:

**Anonymous Tip Leads Authorities to Mafia Shipment**

---

Amara watched from her balcony as Chiara handed her a new folder. "He's going to retaliate."

"I know," Amara said.

Chiara hesitated. "He won't come gently. Luca was trained by ghosts. He doesn't just strike back. He rewrites the battlefield."

Amara turned to face her, wind curling her black hair around her face.

"Then we'll burn the battlefield down before he gets the chance."

That night, she placed a rose beside her father's framed photo.

A crimson rose, fresh with dew.

Then she whispered, "I'm not your heir, Papà. I'm your evolution."

And the queen made her first move.