The waves are rougher once we leave the harbor’s shelter. The little motorboat bucks beneath us, spray lashing my face, the salt burning my lips. Dante’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles pale against the wind, his eyes fixed on the horizon as though sheer will could part the sea for us.

Behind us, the coastline fades into mist — a blur of white cottages and sharp cliffs that already feel like a dream. The quiet life we’d built there, fragile as it was, has shattered again. I can taste the loss, bitter as the brine on my tongue.

“How far are we going?” I shout over the noise of the...