Palermo never truly slept. Even in the small hours, the city pulsed like a restless animal, cars prowling the narrow streets, deals whispered in neon-lit bars, the sea wind dragging secrets inland.
But for Isabella Wilson, silence after the arena was louder than the roar of the crowd had ever been.
She sat in her study, still in black, knuckles split and raw, her sword lying across the desk like a promise. Marcus stood with arms crossed near the door, while Sebastian paced, restless as a wolf in a cage.
"The Raccis will twist last night," Marcus said at last. His gravelly voice carried more weight than the silence. "They'll paint it as you losing control."
"Let them," Isabella replied. She sipped her whiskey, the burn steadying her. "They'll also whisper that I fought four men and walked out without a scratch. Fear spreads faster than any fire."
Sebastian stopped pacing. "Fear is unstable. It burns out. What you need is loyalty."
"Loyalty is fragile," Isabella said sharply. "It costs more than it's worth."
Marcus spoke again, quiet, deliberate. "Loyalty is what holds the line when fear cracks."
Isabella didn't answer. Her eyes lingered on the dark windowpane. Somewhere in the shadows of Palermo, Alistair D'Amato had gone back to his world of silence. He hadn't lifted a hand in the arena, but he had spoken to her. Not as an enemy. Not as a friend. Something in between.
And she wasn't sure if that was dangerous.
The next evening, the invitation came: a "celebration dinner" hosted by the Raccis. In truth, Isabella knew it for what it was just a performance, a chance to measure her in their territory.
The villa glittered with chandeliers, marble floors polished to a mirror's shine. Oil portraits of dead patriarchs glared down, as though daring her to trespass.
Vittorio Racci greeted her at the entrance, his smile like a knife hidden in silk.
"La Rosa Negra," he purred, kissing the air near her cheek. "We worried after your… spectacle. But you look radiant. Untouchable."
"Almost is a dangerous word," Isabella said, her smile cool, cutting. "Careful it leaves room for imagination."
His eyes flickered, but the mask held.
At the long dining table, Salvatore Racci raised his glass. "To the truce," he declared, his baritone rolling through the room. "May Palermo prosper under our shared vision."
The toast rang hollow. Every smirk, every glance told Isabella the truth: the truce was a stage play. The knives were already drawn. And hers were sharpened as well.
The Balance of Power
As the men spoke, Isabella kept her silence, absorbing every detail.
The Raccis controlled the casinos and clubs, the glossy high-rise hotels where politicians lost both fortunes and reputations. Recently, they had started buying up vineyards inland, securing loyalty from landowners with money rather than blood.
The Wilsons held the shipping docks and construction companies the steel and cement that built Palermo's skeleton.
And the D'Amatos? They owned the routes. Smuggling corridors across Europe, financial networks hidden in tech startups and offshore banks. They didn't just hold Palermo; they held the world map in their hands.
The thought pressed like a weight on Isabella's chest. Alistair D'Amato had stood in her arena. He had watched. And watchers like him were never idle.
She wasn't sure what to do for the first time. She wasn't sure whose side he was going to take. But one thing she was sure of is that she would be prepared either against the Racci's or the D'Amatos
The Garden Confrontation
After dinner, Isabella slipped into the villa gardens. The roses were in bloom, their perfume heavy in the warm night air. But beneath it lingered something sharper: gunpowder, smoke, the taste of old wars not yet finished.
"You don't belong here."
Vittorio's voice cut across the gravel path. His steps were slow, deliberate. He came to stand just close enough to breathe her air.
"Neither do you," Isabella murmured, eyes still on the sea beyond the hedge. "But at least I'm not pretending this is peace."
Vittorio chuckled, though his eyes were sharp as razors. "When I look at you, Wilson, I see a girl playing at crowns. But crowns are heavy. They break necks."
She turned then, her gaze cutting him open. "Better my neck than my spine. At least I don't bow."
For a second, the mask slipped. His smile sharpened to venom. "Enjoy your docks while you can. Palermo will not weep when they burn."
He left her in the garden, but his words clung to her skin like smoke.
On her way out, Isabella's car slowed as it approached the villa gates. There, leaning against a black Maserati, stood Alistair D'Amato.
No guards. No entourage. Just him, smoke from a half-burned cigarette curling in the night air.
She rolled her window down, voice low. "You enjoy watching, don't you?"
His lips curved faintly around the cigarette. "Observation teaches more than making any noise."
"And what did you learn tonight?"
Alistair's gaze flicked from her face to the villa behind her. "That the Raccis are already writing your eulogy. But they're underestimating you." He flicked the cigarette into the dirt, ember dying instantly. "That could be their last mistake."
Her heart quickened, though her expression stayed cool. "You speak like a man who's already chosen a side."
"Not chosen," he said softly. "Considering."
And then, without another word, he slid into his car and drove away, leaving her with silence and smoke.
By the time Isabella returned to the Wilson estate, Marcus was waiting in her study, his face grim.
He handed her a slip of paper, ink scrawled in a bold, slanted hand.
"Your ships burn at dawn. " V"
Her blood chilled. The truce was over before it had even begun.
Yet under the cold fear, something sharper stirred rage, and the fire to answer it.
If the Raccis wanted war, they would get one.
And somewhere in the dark, Alistair D'Amato was still watching.