The sky bled crimson as the sun rose over the Amalfi coast.

Below the cliffs, waves crashed against the rocks like a warning drumbeat — the sound of something ancient, inevitable.

Inside the Romano villa, everything moved with ruthless precision.

Men packed crates of ammunition, checked weapons, murmured into radios. The quiet luxury of the estate had turned into a war base overnight.

Dante Romano stood at the center of it all, silent and watchful. He wore black — no tie, sleeves rolled up, his expression carved from stone. Every command he gave was clipped and final.

To his men, he looked untouchable.

To Isabella, he looked human — tired,...