Prologue
March 2024, one year before the events of 'The Ashen Circle'
A suffocating silence clung to the Varo del Fuego meeting chambers when Camilla arrived, taking her seat at the left side of the ashen wood table. She had been the one to call the meeting after a spiderling's whisper ghosted against her ear on her way out of the nail salon, carrying news that made her skin crawl.
The Spider calling a meeting was never a good sign. It meant their enemies were putting plans into motion, something drastic enough that it couldn’t wait until later that night.
Yet despite the gravity of the meeting, Camilla couldn’t stomach the weight of silence.
Her gaze flickered sideways to Angelo, who was swiping systematically through the surveillance photos she had forwarded to him of the Castillos’ latest movements. She noted his movements, fluid and mindless as he went through them, barely giving a second glance until— there. His thumb hesitated, tenderness flickering where indifference had been as he traced Georgina Castillo’s silhouette.
Intriguing, something to store for a later date, but hardly the distraction she was looking for. Angelo knew her tricks, knew when Camilla was trying to get under his skin. Cassian, however…
Her gaze drifted across the table to where Cassian sat drumming his fingers against the edge. Even slouched, he dominated the chair with his sheer size. The Hound of Barcelona, known for his burning temper and insatiable desire for the girl he could never have. Picking on Cassian was dull, far too easy to provoke, like poking a wounded dog.
“Wondering why I called this meeting? Figured I’ll give you a heads-up before you go all growly and throw a tantrum in front of the boss,” Camilla explained, her eyelashes fluttering as she leaned over the table. Her words were soft, woven with a sweetness that she so often used to disguise the slow-acting poison of her words.
“You see, a little birdy told me Lucia is shacking up with Ro’s little bro,” Camilla mused, her tone lilting over the words as though trying to draw out a reaction, as though her own stomach wasn’t curdling with the weight of what that meant.
Across the table, Cassian’s knuckles strained white as their eyes locked. Mint met with chocolate in a clash as Camilla arched an eyebrow at him in silent questioning, practically daring him to take her bait.
“About time they married her off. Honestly, it was starting to get embarrassing, Hermano (brother),” She added.
Fire ignited in The Hound’s eyes as he fell into her web, reason falling to the wayside. The screech of wood grinding against the floor drew Angelo’s attention from his fixation in time to see Cassian’s chair fling backwards as he rose to his feet.
“The fuck does that mean?” Cassian growled, the vein at the base of his neck pulsing with barely restrained violence.
“Tsk, temper temper,” Camilla tutted as she sat back in her chair, inspecting the fresh manicure that decorated her fingertips. “Down, puppy, I just meant the whole ‘arranged marriage’ thing was starting to look like an excuse to break up with you.”
“Cami, stop riling him up.”
Romero’s gravelled voice cut through the tension — slow, deliberate, and sharp enough to draw blood. Cassian’s eyes snapped to the doorway, to the Fuego’s Jefe leaning against the frame. For an extended moment, no one moved, testing how far they could push the boss’s patience before he finally snapped. It took only a slight upward tilt of his head for Cassian to turn his attention to his discarded chair.
If Cassian was The Hound, then Romero was the hand that held his leash, and he never let it slacken.
“Better.”
Approaching the head of the table, Romero slumped back into his chair, his eyes scanning across the members of his inner circle. Two seats remained vacant at each end. One belonging to Cruz, who had been sent away to Galicia as a bargaining chip disguised as a gesture of goodwill to their allies there. The other, however…
“Where’s Dante?”
Romero’s gaze fell upon Camilla, who was still admiring her nails with an expression of indifference bordering on boredom, expecting her to inform him of her younger brother’s whereabouts. But it was Angelo who answered instead, slipping his phone into his jacket’s hidden inner pocket.
“Ogling his nurse ‘bout now, I reckon.”
Camilla stomped on the toe of Angelo’s shoe beneath the table in response, the stiletto heel that should have stabbed straight through the Italian leather instead split with a mortifying crack as it collided with a steel cap.
“Gotta try harder than that on me, princessa,” he murmured, his lip turning at the corner into a smug smirk, winking at her.
“Bastardo (bastard),” she hissed beneath her breath before turning her gaze to Romero. “The doctors are watching the scar tissue from his gunshot wound. They’re worried how it’ll heal.”
“Couldn’t reschedule?” The Jefe queried.
“Correct.”
“Wouldn’t reschedule, more like,” Cassian muttered, giving voice to the tension that permeated the space around Dante’s absence.
Despite being part of the Ashen Circle, Varo del Fuego’s inner elite, Romero was lucky to hear a handful of words from the Weapons Expert a month. Most of their communication was passed between Camilla, who functioned as the carrier pigeon between The Scorched and The Flame, whom he blamed for his burns.
“It’s fine, I can fill him in later,” Camilla excused, wanting to break up the tension that was lingering over them like a storm cloud. When no one objected, she continued.
“I’ve been keeping tabs on the unaffiliated, those who haven’t picked a side. The Castillos of León. The Serranos of Valencia. The Montoyas of Seville. For the most part, they’ve remained neutral, uninterested in the war for the Varo name, but it seems like times are changing.”
“Tonight’s Carnaval del Pecado (Carnival of Sin) The sets the stage for an announcement by the Don of Los Serrano: a union between Lucia Serrano and Zavier Varo."
Romero didn’t erupt. His rage smouldered low, a stubborn ember that refused to die. But even through his impassive expression, the rage blazed behind his eyes burned hot, a contrast to their icy colour.
Los Serrano had been an ally of the Varo family for generations, standing united as the eastern powers of Spain’s underworld. Marrying off his only daughter to his traitor brother, the only man capable of disputing Romero’s claim to the Varo name, was a clear indication of where he was placing his chips.
“...And the others?” Romero questioned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, his jaw clenching and rolling as he tried to maintain his composure. The Serranos would be a hard loss, but affordable if they could still secure the support of the Castillos and Montoyas.
“No news yet. I’ll reconnect with my contacts tonight, see if the announcement causes any movement with the others,” Camilla offered, still wearing her mask of indifference, even as her fingers picked at her cuticles — a nervous tell she hadn’t shaken.
“Keep me updated through the night. If you catch even a whisper of trouble, you pull out.” Romero’s tone left no room for compromise, stern and unflinching, his gaze locked on hers until she gave a faint, measured nod. “Cassian, check with your enforcers, see if anyone caught whispers of movement on the streets.”
There was no call to adjourn, just Romero rising from his chair and turning his back on them as he stalked towards the window. It was enough for The Spider and The Hound both to take their leave, but Angelo? No, he still had quips on his tongue that he had been holding back.
“Hey, boss man, worst comes to worst, you can always marry for an alliance too, ay?”
The fragile tether of Romero’s control frayed a little further, his hand clenching at his side, every muscle in his back seizing with barely contained rage. Marriage… There would be no marriage, not for him, not after everything he sacrificed to avoid the last one, not after everything it cost him.
“If you don’t get the fuck out of my meeting chamber right now, Cortelli, I’ll hang your ugly mug on my wall like a fucking trophy,” Romero hissed from between clenched teeth, his fingers twitching towards the holster at his side.
The shifting of Angelo’s chair, the ruffle of fabric as he walked towards the door, it echoed through the room with the promise of peace, for a moment to think, to breathe.
But Angelo couldn’t leave without having the last word. He never could.
"Anche il fuoco, senza nutrimento, finisce col divorare sé stesso (Even fire, without sustenance, ends up devouring itself)."
In one fluid motion, Romero drew and fired. The bullet slammed into the wall where Angelo had stood just seconds before.
“Fuck… FUCK.”
He was losing his fucking mind, a name, her name, echoing through his mind like a haunting melody. Each repetition drained his sanity, threatening to undo him.
Amélie… Amélie… Amélie…
Where are you, Sinner?