The storm had left the city soaked and gleaming, each puddle reflecting fractured neon lights. Isabella held the envelope tightly, its weight heavier than any secret she had ever carried. Dante trailed close behind, his fingers brushing her arm occasionally, a small anchor against the chaos inside her.

She kneeled by the shattered fireplace, the remnants of Lucia’s fury still smoldering in the ashes, and gently opened the envelope. Papers slid out, crisp and damp from the rain that had seeped through the broken windows. They smelled faintly of wax and smoke — history preserved in fragile ink.

Dante crouched beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, but he didn’t reach...