A week later, Rosalia was officially discharged from the hospital.

She sat in the quiet reception lobby, dressed in simple clothes that felt far too loose against her healing frame, waiting for Giovanni. A small detail of bodyguards stood at a respectful distance around her—men with unfamiliar faces and stoic, unreadable expressions. She didn't bother to break the silence or attempt small talk with them. She didn't want to.

Around noon, a black benz pulled to a smooth stop in the hospital's private courtyard.

Giovanni stepped out. He thrust one hand into his suit pocket, his eyes scanning the lobby as he walked inside.

He was back to being formal,...