The sky above the Iron Crown estate churned with heavy clouds, dark and swollen, as though the world itself sensed what was coming.
War.
It began quietly.
One by one, they arrived.
Black SUVs rolled through the iron gates at dawn, tires crunching over gravel. Men stepped out in disciplined lines armed, alert, marked by scars and loyalty rather than insignias.
These were the Moretti loyalists, those who had stayed hidden during Damian's captivity, waiting for a banner worth dying under again.
Inside the main hall, Isabella stood at the head of the long table.
She no longer wore soft colors. Tonight, she was dressed in black tailored, sharp, unyielding. Her hand rested unconsciously over her stomach, a silent reminder of what she was fighting for.
Luca stood to her right, expression carved from stone.
Damian stood to her left.
Together.
Still fractured. Still healing. But unbroken.
