The first thunderclap split the night like a warning shot.

Rain battered the roof of the ancient villa, sheets of water gliding over its stone walls like restless ghosts. The sky over Tuscany had turned black and merciless, every flash of lightning revealing the trembling olive trees that guarded the estate. The storm was here — and so was she.

Inside, Dante Moretti moved like a man preparing for war.

He wore black — shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms streaked with old scars and new tension. His pistol gleamed in his hand as he checked the chamber, eyes cold, movements precise. Every few seconds, lightning flared through the tall windows,...