The safehouse was very quiet. Too quiet.
The walls made little sounds. The wind pushed at the window. But no one spoke. No one moved. It felt like the air was holding its breath.
Aria sat at the wooden table. The cracked phone was in her hand. The screen was small, the glass was scratched, but the words on it were big. Every headline had her name. Every screen showed Isabelle's lies.
The city now called her many names. They called her the runaway wife. They called her the traitor. Some even called her the mafia queen.
The old Aria, the one before fire and blood, would have cried. She would have begged for silence. She would have hidden under the sheets, waiting for it to pass.
But that Aria was gone. Dead.
Now she saw something else. She saw that Isabelle had given her a gift. Not a kind gift, not a sweet one. But a gift of scandal. A crown made of fire. And if Aria wanted to live, she had to wear it.
The door opened. Heavy steps came in.
