Cassian Vale did not rush wars.
He cultivated them.
By the time dawn bled pale gold over the Moretti estate, the first move had already been made, and no one inside the walls felt it yet.
That was the art of it.
Cassian didn't strike where Dante watched.
He struck where Dante assumed was secure.
And obsession, no matter how disciplined, always created assumptions.
Aria woke with the sensation of being watched.
Not the familiar, institutional gaze of cameras and guards. This was different, colder. Sharper. Like a thought brushing against the back of her mind that didn't belong to her.
She lay still, breathing evenly, listening past the hum of the house.
Nothing was wrong.
And that, somehow, felt worse.
When she rose, dressed, and stepped into the corridor, the guards were already in place. Too smooth. Too prepared.
She met one of their eyes, a man she'd passed dozens of times.
This time, he didn't look away.
He looked… uncertain.
The crack was microscopic.
