The villa gates groaned under the weight of silence. Midnight air clung heavy with dread, thick with the salt of the nearby sea. The guards who found the delivery stood rigid, their knuckles white around their rifles, their eyes darting toward the black box sitting like an omen on the cobblestone driveway.

A coffin.

Carved from polished oak, gleaming under the moonlight, and crowned with a single blood-red rose.

When Dante pushed it open, the metallic stench of iron and rot seeped into the air. The inside was lined with velvet—and in the middle lay a crown, Enzo’s family crest etched into its silver edges. A warning.

A promise.

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