The early rays of dawn filtered through the blinds, stretching across the floorboards like golden blades cutting through the remnants of a sleepless night. Dante Moretti stood before the window, shirtless, his lean frame tense as the light caught the faint bruises still healing across his torso. The silence of the room was almost too heavy—each second thick with the quiet before a storm.

Behind him, Isabella stirred on the bed. Her hair spilled like dark silk across the pillow, her skin pale against the deep sheets. There was something achingly human about her in that moment—fragile, soft, far removed from the chaos that had swallowed their lives just days...