When Dante said tomorrow everything would change, I didn’t realize he meant before sunrise.

The villa wasn’t quiet anymore. The sharp clang of weapons echoed through the stone halls, mingling with rapid Italian murmurs. I woke to the sound of boots pounding against the floor, of radios crackling with urgency.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I saw the firelight painting shadows across the walls of the unfamiliar bedroom, smelled the faint scent of smoke and leather that clung to the air. Reality crashed back like a wave.

I was still his prisoner.

The door burst open before I could rise from the bed. It wasn’t Dante—it...