Matilda sat in her penthouse, the city stretching beneath her in the early morning light. A whiskey glass rested in her hand, untouched, the amber liquid catching the sunrise. The war was over. The Consortium was dead. She had won.
So why did it feel like the ground was shifting beneath her?
She had spent years fighting, killing, burning everything in her way to take this city. To make it hers. And yet, something about Vincent Calderone’s last words kept repeating in her head.
"You have no idea what’s coming."
At first, she dismissed it as the dying words of a man who had lost. But now… now she wasn’t so sure.
Her phone vibrated. Nico.
She sighed, answering. “Tell me something good.”
Silence on the other end. Then—
“You need to see this.”
Her jaw tightened. “Where?”
“Warehouse district. Pier 17.”
Mat……
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