The road to Warehouse Seventeen was almost completely deserted.
Valoria looked different at night.
The city that usually never slept had fallen strangely quiet, as if even the streets knew that something dangerous was about to happen.
Inside the first car, Aria sat alone.
The Moretti crown rested beside her.
Her fingers slowly traced the silver emblem engraved across its surface.
For eighteen years, this crown had belonged to a dead empire.
Tonight, it belonged to her.
But Aria wasn't thinking about power.
She was thinking about Rafael's father.
And the man behind the mask.
The Crown Council had given her six hours.
She had used less than two.
Her eyes moved toward the small communication device hidden inside her necklace.
"Aria," Noah's voice came through the concealed earpiece.
"I hear you."
"We're five minutes away."
"Any movement?"
"Nothing obvious."
Aria frowned.
"Nothing?"
"Exactly. No guards. No vehicles. No surveillance signals."
