CH- 32

CH- 32
Isabella POV

The wind off the coast tastes like ash, heavy and bitter on my tongue, as if the cliffs themselves were mourning what we’d done.

It carried whispers—faint, broken echoes of laughter that no longer belonged to the living.

Selene's body slumped against the ruined marble altar, her lifeblood spreading in jagged streaks across the pale stone, staining it like a final signature etched into history.

The crimson pooled around her, darker than I ever thought possible, swallowing light instead of reflecting it.

Even now, with Selene’s blood washed from the marble by the relentless sea breeze, the air hums with something unfinished.

Not just grief—not just war—but something ancient, primal. A curse wrapped tightly in our family’s name, binding us together even as it tore us apart. Her death wasn’t supposed to feel this hollow. Victory should have tasted sweeter.

Silence descended over the garden like smoke, thick and suffocating, choking out everything but the weight of what had happened here.

Only Aria's ragged breath filled the void, sharp and uneven, each inhale slicing through the quiet like a blade.

Her sword still trembled in her hand, slick with Selene’s blood—and maybe ours too, though not yet spilled. She looked smaller somehow, diminished, as if killing Selene had cost her pieces of herself she couldn’t get back.

I stood frozen, rooted to the spot, my fingers clenched so tightly around the gun they ached.

Her death had been inevitable. We all knew it. But not like this. Not like… Aria. My mirror, my enemy, my sister—the one person who understood me best and hated me most. Seeing her standing there, drenched in guilt and resolve, shattered something inside me I didn’t know could break. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Was it?

Veritas limped toward us, his steps slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of dark red behind him. Blood soaked through his shirt, painting him in streaks of crimson that matched the carnage around us.

He stopped a few feet away, leaning heavily on his cane, his face pale but resolute.

“She planned it all,” he rasped, his voice raw and trembling.

“Every test. Every choice. Every death.” His eyes flicked between Aria and me, searching for… what? Forgiveness? Redemption? Or just someone else to blame?

“She’s gone now,” Aria whispered, her words barely audible over the wind.

Her voice cracked under the weight of them, and she lowered her blade, letting it fall to the ground with a dull clatter.

She stared down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if trying to wipe away an invisible stain. “We’re free.”

But freedom felt like a lie.

I stare at the crumpled envelope in my hand. The one I pried from Selene’s body before they dragged her away. Sealed with a black wax sigil I’ve never seen before—an ouroboros around a rose.
Aria stands beside me, silent.

She hasn't said a word since Selene fell. Her face is unreadable—pale, bruised, flecked with dried blood from someone else’s war. But her hands tremble when I hold the letter out.
"She left this for you," I say.

She doesn’t move.

"Or maybe for me. Or both of us. Who fucking knows anymore?"

Still nothing.
"Aria."

Finally, her gaze snaps to mine.
And for the first time since the chamber, I see it—the crack behind the trained stillness.

She's scared. Not of me.

But of what comes next.

Who we are.

What we might become now that the woman who made us into weapons is rotting six feet under Sicilian soil.

She takes the envelope.

Rips it open with careful fingers.

And reads aloud.

“If you’re holding this, then I’ve failed.”
“If you’ve found each other, you’re already stronger than I ever was.”
“But only one of you carries the blood that matters.”
“Only one of you is his.”

My spine stiffens. "His?"

Aria looks up. "Our father."

“No,” I whisper. “I’m the daughter. I was raised in the villa, groomed to take over. It’s me.”

But even as I say it, the doubt slithers in. My bloodline had always been a weapon. Not a crown.

She lowers the letter.

There’s more.

“One of you is a De Luca.”
“The other… was born of something older. A secret bound by blood magic. A debt owed.”
“The true heir was hidden in plain sight.”

My mouth goes dry. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Aria’s hands clench the letter like she might crush it. Her voice is tight.

“Selene was always obsessed with bloodlines. She used to say some legacies were built by men, and others by monsters.”

"And which are we?"

She looks at me.

Then whispers, “Maybe both.”
Footsteps echo behind us.
Dante.
His shoulder is wrapped in fresh gauze. Marco trails behind him, phone in hand, frowning.
“We have company,” Marco says. “Someone left a message at the club.”
I stiffen. “What kind of message?”
He holds up the phone.

A single image: my club’s front door. Splattered in red paint.

One word:

VIRAGO.

I exchange a glance with Dante.

The name cuts deeper than I want to admit.

It was what my mother called me before she died. A warrior woman. A name meant to crown me. Or curse me.
“I’m going back,” I say.

Aria turns sharply. “What?”

“To the city. To the club. To whatever’s left of the world we almost lost trying to protect secrets we don’t even understand.”

“You can’t run an empire in stilettos and champagne,” she snaps.

“No,” I reply, calmly. “But I can burn one down that way.”

Dante steps forward. “We’ll go with you. But this time… no more secrets. If there’s another heir, another bloodline, another ghost in this family—we uncover it. Together.”

Aria doesn’t move. Her eyes drop to her hand—still stained with Selene’s blood.

“She made me like this,” she whispers. “Built me for war.”

“And maybe now,” I say, “we get to find out who we are without her.”
She looks at me. Nods once.

For the first time, it doesn’t feel like the beginning of a war.
It feels like the end of one.

\============

That night, long after we’ve boarded the private jet bound for Florence, after Aria finally falls asleep, I slip into the bathroom with the letter and my mother’s old signet ring.
And I see what Aria missed.

A second page—hidden, folded inside the lining of the envelope.
Smaller.

Written in my mother’s handwriting.

“Forgive me.”
“He made me choose. One daughter to raise. One to hide.”
“I chose the wrong one.”

My knees buckle.

I clutch the sink, breath shallow, the words seared into my memory like a wound.

Which one was I?

And which was the mistake?