The sun had barely risen when Dante’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. The faint hum pierced the fragile calm of the morning. Isabella stirred beside him, still half-asleep, one arm draped across his chest. For a fleeting second, he wished he could ignore it—pretend they were just another couple waking to a normal day. But they weren’t. They were fugitives wrapped in silk sheets and lies.

He slid out of bed, answering with a curt, “Moretti.”

A muffled voice spoke on the other end. Dante’s expression hardened. “How long ago?” His jaw tightened; the warmth from the bed evaporated, replaced by the chill of reality. When he hung up, Isabella...