Chapter Seven – Ghosts of the Bloodline
Some ghosts don't stay buried.
They wait.
And when the time comes, they drag you back into the dark.
I sat alone in the dim light of my father's study, flipping through an old leather-bound journal. The pages were yellowed, edges frayed—memories etched in ink and pain.
Adriano Romano.
My brother.
Or the brother I was told was dead.
The truth wasn't in the stories I'd heard.
Not the official line, whispered behind closed doors and thick cigars.
Adriano hadn't died.
He'd been erased.
A ghost in the family ledger.
The journal told another story.
The night Adriano disappeared was the night my father was ambushed in that bloody firefight.
But the ambush wasn't random.
It was planned.
Adriano was the target.
I closed the book, hands trembling.
Someone wanted him gone.
Someone wanted me gone.
The exile wasn't a punishment.
It was a sentence.
A warning.
And a move in a game far bigger than family politics.
My phone buzzed.
Mercy.
"I dug into the A.E. lead. You were right. Adriano is alive."
"Where?"
"Berlin. Running a shadow network—mercenaries, intel, arms deals. He's building an army."
"Against us?"
"Against everything your family ever stood for."
I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the weight of betrayal crushing me.
The bloodline was bleeding from the inside.
And now, the ghost was coming back to claim what was left.
The throne is built on bones.
And the dead don't forget.
It's time to face my brother.
Or die trying.