Silvio didn't say where he was going.
He only kissed Rose's wrist in the dark and whispered, "You'll be safe here, La Fiora."
Then he was gone — leaving behind the scent of his cologne on the sheets and a hollow silence that settled in the villa like a held breath.
Rose wandered barefoot across the marble floors, her silk robe brushing against her thighs. The villa was too quiet without him. She hated that she already missed him. Hated the ache in her chest when she caught herself reaching for him in sleep.
She had told herself this marriage was strategy. Survival. A way to navigate the blood-soaked world that had swallowed her family whole.
But the way he had touched her in the shower — the way he had knelt beside the bed and massaged her bruised thighs with trembling care — that wasn't strategy. That was something far more dangerous.
And she was starting to fall.
Outside, the clouds rolled heavy and low, casting long shadows over the garden. Rain threatened the horizon.
It was almost noon when the knock came.
Rose stiffened in the hallway. No one came to the house. Silvio had guards, yes — shadows in suits who moved silently through the property — but no one ever knocked.
The door opened without her answering.
A woman stepped through, dressed in a tailored cream coat, heels clicking against the floor like clockwork. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, her lips painted a cold berry red.
Rose froze. "Who are you?"
The woman smiled as if they were old friends.
"You've grown up well, Rose Carter," she said. "Your mother would've been… relieved."
Rose's stomach turned. She stepped back, suddenly aware that none of the guards had appeared. "What are you doing here?"
"I was invited once," the woman said, glancing at the art on the walls. "But your husband must've forgotten to inform you. Or perhaps he didn't want you to know I still walk freely in this world."
Rose's hands clenched. "You didn't answer me."
The woman walked past her and picked up a small glass sculpture from the side table — one Silvio had brought from Sicily. She examined it idly. "Eleanor Moore. That name should still mean something to you, shouldn't it?"
Rose's skin went cold.
Eleanor Moore. Her father's old political ally. Her mother's betrayer. The woman who had vanished the year Isobel Carter died.
"You're dead," Rose whispered.
"I was supposed to be," Eleanor said. Her eyes were sharp as glass. "Your mother made sure of that. But your Silvio… he's a man of curious loyalties."
The name sliced through the room.
"Why are you here?" Rose asked, her voice brittle.
"To see what he's building," Eleanor replied, setting the sculpture down. "To see if the rose he protects is worth burning his kingdom for."
Rose's pulse thundered. "You shouldn't be here."
"No," Eleanor said, her smile deepening. "But I am. And you should wonder what that means."
She stepped closer. Rose didn't flinch, but she felt her breath shorten. Eleanor smelled like cedar and something chemical underneath — expensive, but artificial.
"You remind me of Isobel," Eleanor said. "She had fire, too. And she thought she could make deals with men like Silvio Mysterio and come out untouched."
"She wasn't like you."
"No," Eleanor said. "She was worse. She knew exactly what she was giving up. And she still chose the wrong side."
A silence fell between them. The rain finally started to fall outside, softly at first, like a lullaby for ghosts.
Then Eleanor turned toward the door. "Tell him I stopped by," she said. "And tell him he's not the only one watching."
She left without waiting for an answer.
Rose stood there for a long time, her fingers trembling at her sides. The air felt heavier now. She stared at the door as it clicked shut — not locked. Not guarded.
Only then did she notice the envelope Eleanor had left on the entry table.
It was blank.
But inside was a photograph.
Her mother — younger, still alive — standing beside Silvio Mysterio.
And in the corner of the photo, almost hidden in the shadows, was a young Rose… no older than five, looking directly at the camera.