The mansion smoldered well into dawn. Black smoke curled into the morning sky like a funeral veil. Half of the eastern wing was gone — the library, the art gallery, and Cristiano’s private war room turned to ash.

Elena stood at the edge of the rubble barefoot, her silk robe stained with soot, hair tangled, but her expression like stone.

Sofia sat beside Matteo on the front steps, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her injuries were minor, but her eyes hadn’t stopped scanning the shadows.

Cristiano emerged from the west wing, tossing his burnt jacket aside. His shirt was singed at the sleeves, chest heaving with rage barely held...