News of the Cardinal's death swept through the underworld like wildfire.
But the headlines never mentioned Grace.
They called it a ritual killing.
A warning.
A ghost.
> That's fine, Grace thought. Let them fear a ghost.
---
Luciano stood by the window, watching the rain splatter against bulletproof glass.
He hadn't slept.
Hadn't touched a drink.
And hadn't stopped looking at the symbol carved into the Cardinal's palm.
> "She's provoking them," Matteo said behind him.
"She's not just hunting. She's sending messages."
Luciano turned slowly.
Voice sharp.
> "She is the message."
---
Meanwhile, in a dark villa on the edge of Lake Como, a Circle council gathered.
Seven men in robes.
One empty chair—the Cardinal's.
At the head sat Augusto Nero, the Circle's acting commander.
Cold, elegant, and untouchable.
> "Grace Moretti must be silenced," he said.
"Publicly. Brutally. We need to crush her myth."
> "And what of Moretti?" someone asked.
"He's still protecting her."
Augusto smiled thinly.
> "Then we rip her from his heart."
---
Back in Rome, Grace arrived at her hideout—tired, soaked, bleeding from a cut across her side.
Luciano was waiting.
His hands clenched.
> "They've put a bounty on you," he said. "Seven figures."
She dropped her jacket, revealing the wound.
> "Make it ten. I'm not done."
He stepped forward. Anger flickered in his eyes.
> "You want revenge? I get it. But if you keep playing this game, they'll kill you."
> "Then they'll learn I don't die easy."
> "Damn it, Grace. You're not bulletproof!"
Her reply was soft, but deadly:
> "No, I'm worse. I've got nothing left to lose."
Luciano grabbed her.
Kissed her like it was both punishment and prayer.
> "Then let me lose it with you."
--