The rain hit like judgment.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't cleansing. It was cruel—pelting Alfreda's skin as she stumbled through the back alley behind the burning nightclub, clutching the serpent-coin like it had teeth.
Silas's blood still painted her arms.
His words still slashed her mind.
You're the Widowmaker's legacy.
She doesn't want you dead. She wants you reborn.
It made no sense.
But it made too much sense.
Every time she'd tried to run from her past, something had dragged her back—fires, blood, betrayal, Nathaniel.
And now this coin.
That damned coin.
She dropped into an abandoned church—one she remembered from childhood.
Orphans had been dragged there for forced prayer sessions, knelt in rows, and whipped if they cried.
The place was supposed to be closed down. Condemned.
But it was open.
Candles flickered.
A single figure knelt at the altar, wrapped in black lace like a widow.
Alfreda raised her gun.
"Turn around slowly."
The figure obeyed.
And Alfreda's breath vanished.
"Celia?"
It couldn't be.
Celia was dead. Alfreda had seen her body—the charred curls, the lifeless eyes, the rosary clutched in her tiny hand. She'd buried that memory beneath fire and screams.
But here Celia stood. Older. Changed.
Alive.
The girl she swore to protect… had survived.
"Alfie," Celia whispered, voice trembling. "You were never supposed to find me."
Alfreda's knees buckled. The gun fell.
She ran forward—wrapped her arms around her baby sister.
Tears fell like ash.
They sat on the altar floor, breathing each other in, shaking in disbelief.
"I thought you were gone," Alfreda choked.
"I was," Celia said, eyes distant. "I was taken."
What came next was worse than death.
Celia told her everything.
How a woman in black had walked through the flames the night of the fire. How she cradled Celia like a daughter, whispering that her real family had come for her.
How she raised her in darkness.
Not as a child.
But as an heir.
"She called herself the Widowmaker," Celia said, voice a haunted melody. "And she taught me how to kill."
Alfreda's blood ran cold.
"No… that can't be. She murdered everyone."
"She spared me. She molded me."
Celia touched Alfreda's cheek. "And now she wants you too."
Alfreda recoiled.
"You're with her?"
"No." Celia's voice cracked. "I escaped. But I've never stopped watching you. I was there when you broke into the bank vault. I saw you leave roses at Mom's grave. I stayed hidden."
"Why?"
"Because she wants you alive," Celia whispered. "You're her daughter too."
The world tilted.
"No. No, I was adopted. I have no—"
"She lied to you," Celia said. "The orphanage was hers. We were part of an experiment. Children of the syndicate, bred for war."
"No…"
"You're not just a victim, Alfie. You were meant to inherit her empire."
The coin burned in Alfreda's hand now.
Everything clicked.
Why the Widowmaker had always been a step ahead. Why Nathaniel had protected her without explanation. Why Silas had begged her to walk away.
She was never the hunter.
She was the bait.
Celia stood, tears drying, eyes harder now. "She'll come for you next. You're the missing piece."
"I won't let her use me."
"You may not have a choice."
Suddenly, footsteps.
Men—armed, fast, brutal—rushed in.
Widowmaker's guards.
"Run!" Celia screamed, dragging Alfreda through the confessional and out a back tunnel.
They sprinted through the underground catacombs—barely dodging bullets as dirt and memories collapsed around them.
"I know a way out," Celia panted. "A safehouse. We have to reach the Valez line."
Alfreda's eyes widened. "You mean… Lachlan?"
Celia nodded. "He knows the Widowmaker's old trade routes. He used to work with her—before she betrayed him too."
They emerged into the rain, bruised, broken, but alive.
And for the first time in years, Alfreda didn't feel alone.
She felt something worse—tethered.
To the truth.
To a war she didn't choose.
To a mother who created monsters.
And if the Widowmaker thought she could pull Alfreda into her web…
She had another thing coming.
Because this time?
The daughter was bringing the fire.