The city had never looked so haunted. From the blackened skyline to the ash drifting like snow over the harbor, everything bore the scars of war. Luca's convoy tore through the streets at dawn, the low growl of engines echoing between buildings that had once belonged to their enemies and now, maybe, to no one. Aria sat beside him, her wounded arm bound tightly in a strip of his shirt, her eyes reflecting the smoldering horizon.
The adrenaline of the night before had faded, leaving behind exhaustion and an eerie stillness between them. The chapel, their almost-wedding, their brief glimpse of peace, all of it had been turned to smoke. But neither spoke of loss. Their silence wasn't defeat; it was resolve.
"We'll regroup at the port," Luca said finally, voice rough from hours of shouting orders. "Enzo's men are already sweeping the docks. If Matteo's still alive, that's where he'll strike next."
Aria nodded, jaw set. "Then that's where we end it."
