The morning light spilled into the villa like a cruel trick. Soft gold touched the marble floors and filtered through the tall windows, but it could not mask the tension that coiled in every shadow. To anyone outside, the estate might look like a palace. Inside, it was a fortress wrapped in fear.
Isla sat at the edge of her bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The restless night still clung to her body, her eyelids heavy, but her mind refused to rest. She had heard the gunfire again. Distant at first, then closer, rolling like thunder across the hills. Luca's men were pressing harder. The city was bleeding. And inside these walls, Dante was unraveling.
The door opened without a knock. Dante entered, flanked by two guards. He wore black today, sharp lines against his tall frame, his expression carved in stone. His eyes, however, were darker than stone, restless with a storm she had learned to recognize.
"Get dressed," he ordered. His voice was clipped, brooking no delay.
