Alessio's POV
The Bianchi villa never wakes up slow.
Even at dawn, it's all sunlight warming marble floors, staff moving quietly through corridors, espresso machines hissing in distant kitchens. But beneath all of that—the brightness, the elegance—there's tension. A quiet, steady hum like the house itself remembers last night and hasn't forgiven anyone for it.
I step out of my room already dressed. It's not vanity. It's habit. Uniform. Armor.
I take the stairs two at a time and push open the breakfast room door.
Instant regret.
Salvatore sees me first and throws both arms up like I've just returned from war.
"There he is! The man, the myth, the emotionally constipated legend!"
I drop into my chair. "It's seven in the morning. Please shut up."
Gabriel doesn't even look up from his espresso. "He's cranky. That means he slept zero hours."
"I slept," I lie.
Salvatore gives me a sympathetic pat on the back. "Sure. And I'm the Pope."
At the far end of the table, Demitri sits hunched over a bowl of cereal, spoon in one hand, laptop in the other. He glances up shyly.
"You did seem… distressed last night."
"Distressed?" I repeat.
He nods earnestly. "Your breathing pattern was elevated when you carried Diana upstairs."
I stare at him. "You were monitoring my breathing pattern?"
His face turns ten shades of pink.
"N-not intentionally."
Gabriel grins. "He's worried about you, dummy."
Demitri mutters into his cereal, "I worry about all of you."
"Aw," Salvatore says. "You're like a nervous little saint. A saint with Wi-Fi."
"Please stop talking," Demitri whispers.
The banter feels normal—like a bandaid over the wound last night left. But it doesn't erase the memory of carrying Diana through the halls, unconscious and burning up, while my mother followed with a face that told me she was barely keeping it together.
"Any update?" I ask quietly.
Gabriel's expression softens. "Mum stayed with her all night. Diana's stable. Fever down. Still out cold."
Relief hits me hard enough I have to inhale slowly. I pick up the fork in front of me, but the food tastes like nothing.
"Don't worry," Salvatore says, nudging me. "She's tough."
"She better be," I mutter. "I didn't drag her across the villa for her to sleep through another morning."
Gabriel lifts an eyebrow. "Right. Because God forbid she misses your cheery personality."
"Eat your food," I tell him.
"I am eating. You're the one staring at your plate like it owes you money."
---
By the time breakfast ends, the four of us have naturally gravitated to the security room downstairs—no one said we had to, but Bianchi instincts kick in quick. When something feels off, we chase the scent.
Demitri immediately takes his seat at the main console. His fingers fly across the keys, too fast for a man who still gets nervous ordering his own coffee.
"I went through the footage from last night," he murmurs. "Specifically the east wing corridor. And… something's wrong."
I lean over his shoulder. "Wrong how?"
He swallows. "There's missing footage."
My spine goes rigid. "How much?"
"Four minutes," he says. "And during those same four minutes… someone looped the cameras."
Salvatore lets out a low whistle. "Ohhhh. Well, shit."
Gabriel crosses his arms. "Someone tampered with our system. In Giovanni's house."
"That means it's someone with access," I say. "Someone who knows our layout."
Demitri nods rapidly. "Exactly. They knew where the blind spots are. They knew how to override my encryption—which is impossible unless—unless—"
He cuts himself off, overwhelmed.
I steady him with a hand on the back of his chair. "Unless they're not an amateur."
He nods again.
He freezes. "Wait. Look at this."
He plays the last frame before the loop kicked in. A blurred figure stands near the corner of the corridor—half in shadow, face hidden.
"Can you sharpen it?" I ask.
"Yes," Demitri says, then tries.
The image somehow becomes worse.
Gabriel pats my shoulder. "Congrats. It's now even blurrier."
"It looks like a threatening potato," Salvatore adds helpfully.
"Enhance is not real," Demitri groans, pushing his glasses up. "Pixels can't magically— Never mind. Look at this instead."
He zooms in—not on the person, but on the wall behind them.
A scratched marking. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
A diagonal slash.
A curve.
A vertical line.
My blood runs cold.
"…Cortez," I say. Quiet but certain.
Gabriel's head jerks up. "As in Rafael Cortez?"
"The Madrid syndicate," I confirm. "Giovanni's old rival. The one who swore he'd settle things himself."
Salvatore sits forward. "What the hell would he be doing here? In our territory?"
"Either sending a message," I say, "or taking something."
Diana's pale face flashes in my mind.
Daniel's name flickers behind it.
Victor's ghost hovers at the edges.
"We tell Giovanni?" Gabriel asks.
"Not yet," I say. "I want more information first."
Salvatore folds his arms. "Why? This is his battlefield."
"Because if we tell him now, he'll go nuclear," I answer. "And we need answers, not a war before lunch."
Demitri hesitates, then opens another file. "There's… one more thing."
His voice drops.
"I checked the access logs. The person who looped the cameras… used an internal login."
My pulse stops.
"Whose?" I ask.
Demitri licks his lips, nervous. "I— It was masked. I can't see the name. But… the login came from inside the villa."
Silence falls like a blade.
Someone inside did this.
Gabriel leans back, exhaling. "Great. So we've got a mole."
Salvatore mutters, "Better not be the chef. I like him."
Demitri chews his lip. "It had to be someone trusted… someone with clearance…"
But I already feel the suspicion threading through me, sharp and slow.
Not yet.
Not them.
Not until I know more.
"We don't point fingers," I say. "We find proof."
"And if the traitor finds us first?" Gabriel asks.
"Then they'll regret it," I say.
Because whatever last night was—
whatever Cortez wants—
whatever enemy slipped into Giovanni's home—
It's getting bigger.
And Diana, unconscious upstairs, is right in the center of it.