The villa felt different that night. The air was thick with unspoken truths, the remnants of their victory mingling uneasily with the knowledge that the mole’s shadow still lingered. Dante paced the polished floors, every step echoing the restless storm inside him. He couldn’t afford distraction, yet Isabella’s presence was a constant pull, a tether that anchored him to something real, something tangible, amid the chaos of deceit.

She sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled under her, watching him with eyes that mirrored both concern and desire. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she said softly, voice tender but firm. “The more you obsess over them,...