The city learned to whisper again.
After the Mercato burned, after ash clogged the river and smoke bruised the sky for days, people stopped speaking in full sentences. Names became dangerous. Rumors carried knives. Power shifted—not loudly, not cleanly—but like pressure building under skin.
Matthew felt it everywhere.
In the way calls ended too quickly.
In the way allies suddenly wanted meetings in daylight.
In the way enemies stopped posturing and started planning.
The Mercato Del Muerte had not just been a market. It had been a spine.
And now it was gone.
Matthew stood in the mansion's upper war room, jacket off, sleeves rolled, a thin cut still healing across his knuckles from the night they dragged Aiden out of the tunnel. The screens before him showed maps of the city layered with new data—territories blinking uncertainly, routes grayed out, old lines erased.
