The ruins of the Widowmaker estate smoldered behind them, a twisted monument of betrayal and blood. Smoke curled into the sky like the spirits of the dead rising to collect their dues. But miles away, in a cold mountain villa cloaked in silence, another war was just beginning.
Celeste sat by the fire, staring into the flames, her mother's pearls wrapped tightly around her wrist like shackles. She hadn't worn them since the night her mother vanished into the Widowmaker's world.
Now she knew why.
Footsteps creaked behind her. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You should be asleep," came the sharp voice of the woman who bore her.
"I haven't slept since you left," Celeste murmured. "And you didn't even say goodbye."
Her mother stepped into view—older now, colder, but still wearing grief like a badge. She poured a glass of brandy and didn't offer Celeste any.
"I told you once—this world is not for the soft."
"And I told you I wanted out," Celeste snapped.
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You thought you wanted out. But you've always been one of us. Your blood doesn't lie."
Celeste rose. "Don't talk to me about blood. You gave me to the Widowmakers. You let them train me."
"I gave you a weapon," her mother said, sipping the brandy. "It's not my fault you didn't use it."
Celeste's eyes burned. "Celia's gone."
Her mother froze.
"I watched her bleed out," Celeste whispered. "And I felt nothing."
Silence.
And then her mother said the last thing Celeste expected:
"Then you're finally ready."
Elsewhere…
Nathaniel stood before the Vault.
Not a room.
Not a safe.
An entire underground mausoleum—guarded by biometric locks and death-trap failsafes. It had been sealed for thirty years. Only three people were meant to know it existed.
Two of them were dead.
The third?
Was standing beside him with blood still dried on her knuckles.
Alfreda stared at the stone door.
"What's inside?" she asked.
He didn't answer at first. Instead, he placed his hand on the scanner. The lock hissed open, gears grinding with ancient power.
When the doors parted, the cold air that poured out was heavy with secrets.
Alfreda stepped in first.
Her breath caught.
Walls lined with names. Photos. Files.
Screens flickered to life with footage of conversations that were never meant to be recorded—politicians, criminals, mafia families, even her own mother's wedding.
"What the hell is this?"
Nathaniel spoke finally. "Leverage. Insurance. The entire Widowmaker empire—blackmail, bloodlines, betrayals—it's all here."
Alfreda turned slowly. "You kept all this?"
"No," he said. "My father did."
A pause.
She moved closer, fingers brushing the dusty files. Her name was on one of them. So was Nathaniel's. So was Celia's.
She flipped one open and paled.
"He knew," she breathed. "Your father knew everything. The experiments. The training camps. The contracts. He built the Widowmakers—and then he sold their secrets to the highest bidder."
Nathaniel nodded, jaw clenched. "This was his legacy. He planned to control the world from this room."
Alfreda turned to him. "And now it's yours."
He didn't respond.
So she asked the real question.
"What are you going to do with it?"
Back in the villa, Celeste's mother handed her a phone.
"Alfreda and Nathaniel opened the Vault," she said.
Celeste took the phone with shaking hands. The screen lit up with surveillance still active inside.
"They know," she whispered.
"They don't understand," her mother corrected.
"But they will," Celeste said. "And then… the real war begins."