The night stretched endlessly over the Romano estate, painted in the dull orange glow of dying fires. The acrid scent of smoke lingered in the air, blending with the faint metallic tang of blood. The chaos had subsided, but the silence that followed felt far worse.

Dante stood in the ruins of the east courtyard, a shadow against the destruction he’d once sworn to control. His clothes were streaked with soot, his knuckles bloodied, his eyes hollow. The weight of what Lucia had unleashed—and what Isabella had learned—hung around his neck like a noose.

He’d spent the last three hours fighting not his enemies, but himself.

Every word Isabella had...