The call came before sunrise.
Sebastian's knock on Isabella's door was sharp, urgent three short raps that made her sit upright instantly. She hadn't been sleeping, only staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence after last night's poisoned dinner.
"Isa," Sebastian said, already stepping inside, his hand pressed against the radio at his ear. His dark eyes were hard, clipped. "The docks. They're burning."
For a heartbeat, Isabella thought she'd misheard. Then the words hit like a blade.
She swung her legs out of bed, still in black silk from the evening before, and reached for the leather jacket draped over a chair. "How bad?"
"Bad enough." Sebastian's jaw tightened. "Four warehouses, maybe five. Containers lit up like torches. We have men on-site, but they're outnumbered. This wasn't an accident. This was a message."
Isabella paused just long enough to breathe in, slow, deliberate. Her rage threatened to claw its way out, the same storm that had driven her to the arena. But she remembered Alistair's words, low and sharp in her ear: Control breeds power.
She steadied herself. "Marcus?"
"In the car already," Sebastian said.
The drive to the docks cut through a Palermo still wrapped in shadows. The streets were eerily empty, save for the glow of fire on the horizon orange licking the sky like a dawn that had come too early.
Marcus was in the back seat, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pistol resting loosely in his lap. His expression was grim, jaw set like stone.
"They knew exactly where to hit us," he said as soon as Isabella climbed in. "Warehouse Three imports from Marseille. That's millions in merchandise, and more important, a cut of our credibility."
"Salvatore doesn't strike for money," Isabella said. Her voice was cold, even. "He strikes for humiliation."
Marcus looked at her, pride and worry warring in his eyes. "Then you'd better make sure he doesn't get it."
When they arrived, the docks were chaos. Smoke rolled in heavy plumes, painting the morning sky black. Flames devoured steel and wood alike, while men shouted orders and sirens wailed in the distance. Water sprayed in desperate arcs, hissing uselessly against the inferno.
Isabella stepped out of the car, her boots crunching on broken glass. Every head turned. Some of her men lowered their eyes in shame; others straightened, waiting for her command.
"La Rosa Negra," someone muttered, half in reverence, half in fear.
She ignored the whispers. She walked forward, Sebastian at her side, Marcus a dark shadow behind her, and stopped at the edge of the fire. Heat blasted her face, but her expression remained carved in ice.
"Who was on watch?" she asked.
One of her lieutenants stepped forward, blood on his temple. "Enzo, signora. But he's gone. Taken, maybe."
A calculated move. The Raccis hadn't just burned her docks they'd left her exposed, her security humiliated.
"Find him," Isabella ordered. Her voice cut through the roar of fire like a blade. "Alive."
The lieutenant nodded, pale, and disappeared into the smoke.
Marcus moved closer, his hand brushing her shoulder, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "We'll rebuild. We always do. But if you don't respond tonight the elders will eat you alive. They already doubted the truce. This proves them right."
Isabella's gaze stayed locked on the fire. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, she smiled. Not warm. Not kind. The smile of a woman sharpening her own knife.
"Then let's not waste tonight."
In the hills above Palermo, where marble villas looked down on the city like kings watching peasants, the Racci estate was buzzing. Not with panic. Not even with urgency. With satisfaction.
Salvatore Racci sat at the head of a long mahogany table, his cane resting across his knees. His face, lined by decades of survival, bore a cruel calm as he listened to the reports. The fire at the docks reflected in his eyes, not through windows but through the words of men who had carried it out.
"You should have seen it, Nonno," one soldier said eagerly. "The flames kissed the sky. Her men scattered like rats."
Across the table, Vittorio Racci Salvatore's son raised a hand, silencing the man with a single flick of his wrist. "Careful," Vittorio said, voice low, heavy with menace. "Do not mistake fire for victory. The Rosas are stubborn weeds. They burn, and then they grow back."
Salvatore chuckled, tapping his cane twice against the floor. "True. But weeds cannot grow without roots. And I intend to cut hers out."
All eyes turned as Matteo entered. He was young, sharp-suited, the picture of controlled arrogance. His presence commanded attention, not because of brute force but because of the quiet certainty in his step. He was the heir, the next Racci to carry their empire forward.
"Father," Matteo said, taking the empty chair beside Vittorio. "Grandfather. I hear the docks burned beautifully."
Vittorio's gaze sharpened on him. "You hear correctly. But do you understand what it means?"
Matteo leaned back, unbothered, pouring himself a glass of red wine as though the meeting were a dinner rather than a war council. "It means Isabella Rosa bleeds. And when she bleeds, Palermo remembers she is mortal."
Salvatore's grin widened, thin and wolfish. "The boy understands."
But Vittorio did not smile. His hands folded together on the table, fingers steepled. "She will retaliate. Not directly, not immediately. Isabella is too clever for that. She will look for weakness. She will strike where it hurts most."
Matteo raised his glass in mock salute. "Then let her try. We are the ones holding the city's arteries. Shipping, construction, transport her reach is nothing without our roads and our cranes. She can play queen all she wants, but even queens starve without supplies."
Salvatore slammed his cane against the floor again, silencing the murmurs of approval around the table. His voice cut through the room, harsh and final.
"Do not underestimate her," the old man warned. "I made that mistake once, long ago, with her mother. I will not repeat it."
The room stilled. Even Matteo, smugness fading, lowered his gaze. Few dared mention Isabella's mother, a ghost that still lingered in whispers.
Salvatore leaned forward, his eyes glinting with venom. "Isabella Rosa is fire dressed in silk. That girl carries her bloodline's curse she will either rule Palermo or burn it to ash. And I intend to choose for her."
The words lingered, heavy as smoke.
Matteo finally broke the silence, his tone measured, more careful now. "Then what is our next move?"
Vittorio answered before Salvatore could. His voice was cool, calculated. "We let the docks burn. Let her rebuild. The harder she tries to rise, the more spectacular her fall will be. We are not here to fight a war, Matteo. We are here to end a bloodline."
Salvatore's smile returned, slow and cruel. "And when the time comes, you will deliver the blow. My heir."
Matteo's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "As you command, Nonno."
Back in the city, smoke still curled over the horizon. To Isabella, it was a scar. To the Raccis, it was a trophy. And between them, the streets of Palermo waited hungry, restless, ready to choose sides.
The first shot of the war had been fired. But the city knew better: the real blood had not yet been spilled.
The Wilson estate was thick with smoke, though no flames touched its walls. The fire still rose at the docks, but the scent had carried inland, clinging to Isabella's lungs like betrayal.
She stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, the city lights stretching far into the horizon, Palermo shimmering beneath the rising ash. Her hands gripped the railing until her knuckles blanched, her chest tight with fury.
"They struck at dawn," Marcus said quietly behind her. His voice was steady, but she could hear the strain beneath. "Two of our ships are gone. The cargo was ash before the fire brigades arrived. Ten men dead. Five more missing."
Sebastian added, "And word is already spreading through the city. The Raccis want this humiliation to echo."
Isabella closed her eyes, forcing the storm inside her to still. She could not show weakness. Not to her men, not to the city. But her thoughts spiraled ten dead. Five unaccounted for. Families broken under my watch.
Marcus stepped forward, concern edging his stoicism. "Say the word, Isabella, and I'll strike back tonight."
"No," she snapped, turning sharply. The word cut the air like steel. Marcus froze. Sebastian lowered his gaze. Isabella steadied her breath, then spoke again, softer but sharper still. "That's what they want. To drag us into their tempo. We respond on ours."
But even as she said it, doubt gnawed at her.
She descended the stairs alone, slipping past guards and family, her black coat trailing behind her like a shadow. The estate gates opened at her command, and she walked into the night, needing the distance, needing air. Palermo's streets whispered as she passed, alleys alive with the murmurs of her name La Rosa Negra, bleeding at last.
She stopped only when the sea came into view, waves lapping against the rocks. The docks burned in the distance, orange tongues of fire licking at the skyline. The loss hit her harder here, with the sea carrying the echo of men's screams.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
The voice, smooth as smoke, drifted from the shadows. She spun, hand instinctively brushing the dagger hidden in her coat.
Alistair D'Amato stepped into the moonlight. His suit was immaculate as always, his presence calm, a contrast to the firestorm around them. His dark eyes lingered on the horizon before meeting hers.
"You watch fires often?" Isabella asked coldly. "Or is it just me you enjoy haunting?"
A faint curve touched his lips. "I watch everything. Palermo burns every night only tonight it's louder."
She exhaled sharply, irritation flickering. "If you came to mock, I've no patience for it."
"I didn't." He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until the distance between them was nothing more than a breath of sea air. "I came to warn you. And to offer… perspective."
Isabella's gaze hardened. "Perspective from a man who watches but never acts?"
Alistair's smile didn't fade, but his voice grew quieter, more dangerous. "You think silence is inaction. It isn't. Silence is patience. And patience is survival."
Her throat tightened, but she refused to look away. "Then why are you here? Why break your silence for me?"
For a heartbeat, his expression softened, almost human beneath the weight of the D'Amato name. His hand lifted not to touch her, but to gesture toward the flames across the sea.
"Because they've made their move. And whether you admit it or not, you cannot fight this war alone."
The words struck deeper than she expected. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on her shoulders. Ten dead. Five missing. Her docks in ruins.
"Help from the D'Amatos comes with chains," Isabella said finally.
Alistair's gaze lingered on her face, unreadable. "Not chains. Terms. You decide if they bind or free you."
The sea wind carried silence between them. For the first time, Isabella felt the pull not just of politics, but of something deeper, more dangerous. A man who offered both salvation and ruin, standing close enough to touch.
And she hated that part of her wanted to take it.
Before she could answer, the roar of an approaching car shattered the stillness. Headlights cut across the cliff road, and Sebastian leapt out before it fully stopped, his voice sharp with panic.
"Isabella! The Raccis there's been another attack."
Her blood iced. "Where?"
"Your vineyards. They've set them ablaze."
The flames at the docks were only the beginning.