Marzia had reformed Talon… No, she had reclaimed what was rightfully hers—through effort, sweat, and blood that stained her sword like a wolf following its nature. She had dethroned Doomfist by severing his mechanical arm. She had fought Reaper, though he managed to escape. Sombra had fled. Widowmaker had simply stepped to her side, following the new leader: Vendetta. Now she was reorganizing Talon as it should be, under her vision—the vision of a pure-blooded Bartalotti.

Marzia sat in Talon’s main hall, dressed in her usual attire that hugged her toned, athletic body. Her long dark brown mane was pulled back into a high, thick ponytail, with wavy strands falling from her forehead along one side of her serious, determined face. She had been complaining about the pizza brought to her for lunch. It had pineapple on it.

"Che schifo," she muttered, her crimson eyes narrowing with disgust. "Chi mette l'ananas sulla pizza? Ma che offesa è questa alla mia cultura?"

She picked up a slice, inspected it as if it had personally insulted her ancestors, and began removing each piece of pineapple with surgical precision.

"Ananas sulla pizza è un'eresia," she continued, her voice low but sharp. "Se mia madre vedesse questo… Mi vergogno solo a guardarlo."

A junior agent standing nearby shifted uncomfortably. "Signora Bartalotti, we can order another—"

"Silenzio," she cut him off without even looking up. "Non voglio un'altra pizza. Voglio giustizia."

She flicked a piece of pineapple onto the plate as if disposing of a traitor’s badge.

"In Italia," she said, finally lifting her gaze, "rispettiamo il cibo. Questa… questa robaccia è un insulto. Un insulto a me. A Talon. All'Italia intera."

With a deep breath, she bit into the now-purified slice, chewing slowly, her expression still thunderous but slightly less murderous.

"Portami del limoncello," she ordered. "E la prossima volta, controllo personale sulla cucina. O giuro su mio padre, qualcuno perderà una mano. E non sarà un braccio meccanico, stavolta."

She leaned back on her throne-like chair, her toned abdomen visible for a moment as her fitted clothing shifted, and crossed her powerful legs. Her eyes swept across the hall, red as spilled wine.

"Talon è mio," she said quietly, almost to herself. "E lo ricostruirò. Più forte. Più italiano. Più letale."

And somewhere in the shadows, Widowmaker watched in silence, knowing better than to comment on the pineapple.