The docks still burned when Damian pulled the car to a stop.
Smoke poured into the sky in thick black plumes, blotting out the stars. Fire crews had been called, but in Palermo, men hesitated when the mafia marked a place with blood. They would wait until the flames had eaten their fill before daring to step forward.
Camilla pressed a hand to her lips as she stepped out, her heels crunching against shattered glass. The air tasted of salt, gasoline, and ash. "Madonna…" she whispered. "It's"
"Deliberate," Damian cut in, his eyes narrowing. His coat hung open, one hand resting at his side near the weight of his gun. He scanned the shadows, the wreckage, the water lapping black against the piers. "This wasn't a warning fire. This was meant to cripple."
Camilla glanced at him, her jaw tight. The firelight danced across her face, throwing shadows beneath her eyes. "And the Wilsons owned these ships?"
"Every crate. Every manifest." Damian crouched by a half-melted container, brushing his hand over the scorched metal. "Millions gone. But the real message isn't money."
"Then what?"
"That Isabella Wilson isn't untouchable." His voice was low, almost grim. "The Raccis are testing how fast the city bleeds when they cut her veins."
A loud crack split the night as one of the ship hulls gave way, collapsing into the harbor with a hiss of steam. Camilla flinched, but Damian didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on the flames, cold and calculating.
"This truce," she murmured, her voice breaking the silence. "Everyone knew it was fragile. But this…"
"This is war."
For a moment, they stood together in the flicker of firelight two outsiders drawn deeper into a storm not of their making. Camilla hugged her coat tighter, but Damian reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist in a rare gesture of reassurance.
"Stay close," he said. "This place isn't empty."
And he was right. From deeper in the smoke, the faint outline of armed men emerged. Not police. Not firefighters. Men in dark coats, with guns slung low and the arrogance of belonging. Wilson guards.
And behind them, a tall shadow stepped into view broad-shouldered, calm, every movement deliberate.
Marcus.
Marcus was the first to greet them. His presence alone carried weight scarred hands, square jaw, the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to command respect.
"Strange night for sightseeing," Marcus said, eyes cutting over Damian and Camilla like blades. His tone wasn't outright hostile, but it wasn't welcoming either.
Damian didn't flinch. "When ships burn in Palermo, everyone comes to see whose empire is shrinking." His gaze flicked past Marcus toward the inferno. "Tonight, it's the Wilsons."
Before Marcus could reply, another voice carried over the smoke. "It's always the Wilsons or so the Raccis would have people believe."
Isabella stepped forward, her black coat trailing ash as if it were part of her shadow. Her eyes were sharp, cold fire smoldering behind them. She didn't look surprised to see Damian, only calculating as if she had already considered this possibility and prepared her move.
Camilla dipped her head politely. "Isabella."
Isabella's lips curved slightly, though it wasn't a smile. "Camilla. Damian. I suppose I should thank you for your concern."
Damian tilted his head. "Concern? No. Observation. The Raccis are bold. That makes them dangerous. But it also makes them sloppy."
"Boldness is never sloppy," Isabella shot back. "It's strategy. They want me angry, and they've succeeded."
The tension was sharp enough to cut, but before it could thicken further, another figure emerged from the haze calm, elegant, impossibly composed.
Alistair D'Amato.
The contrast was stark. Where Marcus carried the weight of loyalty and Isabella radiated fury barely leashed, Alistair walked as though the flames were a stage built for him. He didn't rush, didn't posture. He simply existed, and the world bent to notice.
"Wilson." His voice was smooth, almost conversational. "You've attracted quite the audience tonight."
Isabella's eyes narrowed, but she didn't look away. "And you've chosen an interesting time to stop watching from the shadows."
Alistair's gaze drifted to Damian and Camilla, assessing, measuring. His tone never shifted, but the undercurrent was sharp. "Not all eyes watch for the same reason."
For a long, heavy beat, no one spoke. Four heirs, two silent watchers, one inferno consuming the night behind them. Palermo itself seemed to hold its breath.
The fire at the docks still hissed, the sound of wood collapsing into ash cutting through the silence between them. Palermo's night air carried a bitter tang of salt and smoke, and it seemed even the sea itself recoiled from the violence.
Marcus stood close enough to Isabella that his presence was both a shield and a warning. Damian and Camilla mirrored each other in quiet confidence, while Alistair remained a figure apart too composed, too deliberate, as though nothing here could surprise him.
"Let's not waste the night with silence," Damian said finally, his voice measured, cool. "The Raccis struck bold tonight. They're daring you, Isabella. Daring you to lose control."
Isabella tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And why does that amuse you, Damian?"
"It doesn't amuse me," he replied smoothly. "It interests me. Because if they've grown this reckless, it means they're preparing for something bigger. Something worth the risk." His gaze flicked toward Alistair for the briefest of moments. "And everyone here knows it."
Alistair didn't flinch beneath the implication. He simply folded his hands behind his back and regarded Damian as though weighing a piece on a chessboard. "You speak as if you weren't here to watch us stumble."
"I don't watch," Damian countered. "I calculate. There's a difference."
Marcus gave a sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Calculation? From a man whose family thrives on neutrality? Tell me, Damian, how many empires have the D'Amatos built with that calculation of yours?"
Camilla's lips twitched, but she kept her composure. She took a half step forward, her voice calm but cutting. "Careful, Marcus. Empires fall faster than they're built. Especially when men guard their cousins with teeth bared but leave their gates wide open."
Marcus bristled, but Isabella raised a hand, silencing him. Her eyes locked on Camilla, softening only slightly. "Always sharp, cousin. But I wonder how long will it take for you to learn that standing in the shadows of men like Damian doesn't make you untouchable?"
Camilla inclined her head, the flicker of respect there genuine. "And yet here I stand, untouchable all the same."
The tension deepened, every word another spark over dry tinder.
It was Alistair who broke it. His voice was steady, silk over steel. "Enough." He let the single word hang, heavier than a shout. All eyes turned to him.
He moved closer to Isabella, stopping just a pace away. His presence alone shifted the air he wasn't just watching anymore. He was stepping in. "Isabella," he said, his tone deceptively calm, "you've already decided how to answer the Raccis. Don't insult us by pretending otherwise."
Her jaw tightened. He was right, and they both knew it.
"You want to fight fire with fire," Alistair continued, low enough that only those closest could hear. "But if you burn too brightly, you'll blind yourself before you see who's truly holding the match."
For the first time, Isabella's mask wavered, just slightly. She met his eyes, searching, and found no mockery there only a quiet warning, sharper than any insult.
"What would you suggest then?" she asked softly.
"Not suggestion," Alistair said, his voice cutting through the smoke. "Observation. The Raccis strike loud because they fear what happens if the city forgets them. You… you don't need Palermo to remember you. They already do. That is your power. Use it."
Damian tilted his head, watching the exchange with the faintest of smirks. "Interesting. The D'Amato prince giving counsel now? I thought your family had no stake in this war."
Alistair's gaze flicked to him, unblinking. "Neutrality is not the same as indifference."
For a moment, no one moved. The weight of unspoken possibilities pressed against them all.
It was Camilla who exhaled, breaking the silence. "Then what happens next, Isabella?"
The fire popped, a shower of sparks rising against the night sky. Isabella's eyes never left the flames.
"What happens next," she said, voice firm and steady, "is that the Raccis learn a lesson. One they won't forget."
Alistair's eyes narrowed, though his lips curved faintly. Damian's smirk sharpened. Marcus stiffened at her side, loyalty unwavering.
Four heirs, caught in smoke and mirrors, each walking the razor's edge of alliance and betrayal.
And Palermo, ever watchful, waited for the next move.
The night ended without blood spilled between them, but the air carried the weight of promises not yet made and threats not yet spoken.
For Isabella, the truce was already crumbling.
For Damian and Camilla, the game was only beginning.
And for Alistair D'Amato, the shadows he had lingered in were no longer enough.
The fire was out, but the war it heralded had only just been lit.