The morning after the confrontation at the villa carried a deceptive calm. Sunlight poured over the marble floors of Enzo’s study, casting long golden lines across the polished surface of his desk. The city outside hummed as if nothing had happened, but Elena knew better. Every whisper in the streets carried meaning now; every glance could hide a blade.

Elena stood by the tall window, arms crossed, her mind still replaying the events of the previous night. She could feel Enzo’s gaze on her from across the room as he poured himself an espresso.

“You haven’t slept,” he said without looking up. His voice was low, but it carried the...