The storm returned with vengeance. Thunder rolled over the hills, shaking the ancient Romano estate like the heavens themselves demanded justice.

Lucia stood by the tall window of the library, her reflection glimmering faintly in the lightning’s flash. In her hand, a glass of red wine shimmered like blood.

Down the corridor, Isabella sat silently on the velvet couch, her gaze unfocused, the flash drive still clutched in her trembling hands. She hadn’t slept; she couldn’t. Every thought of Dante was a wound reopening — every memory now questioned.

Lucia’s voice broke the heavy quiet. “He’ll come,” she murmured. “He always does when he senses he’s losing control.”

Isabella’s head...