It’s been four days since we left the safe house behind, and I still wake up expecting the echo of footsteps in the hallway. The kind that meant someone was coming for us, or that Dante had gone out again to deal with something he wouldn’t name. But here, in this small rented cottage perched above a quiet Italian harbor, there are only the sounds of the sea. The gulls. The soft rush of tide against rocks. The world has gone still in a way that feels both merciful and cruel.

Each morning, sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains and paints Dante in gold. I’ve grown used to watching him...