The villa was unusually silent that evening. Even the soft hum of Rome beyond the walls seemed subdued, as if the city itself were holding its breath, aware that tonight, nothing could be ordinary. Dante stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes sweeping over the dimly lit streets. The weight of the last weeks pressed on him like a vice—Marco’s betrayal, the remnants of his network, and now, the whispered intelligence of a mole lurking dangerously close.

Isabella moved quietly behind him, the softness of her footsteps contrasting with the storm in his mind. She leaned into his back, brushing her lips against the shell of his ear....