The storm outside had grown violent by the time the night deepened into silence.

Thunder rolled over the cliffs like a warning from the gods, and every flash of lightning painted the villa in silver and shadow.

Isabella couldn’t sleep. She lay awake in Dante’s bed, wrapped in his shirt, breathing in the faint scent of him that clung to the fabric — smoke, whiskey, and something darker, addictive.

Downstairs, she could hear faint movement — the low murmur of voices, the clink of glass, the steady rhythm of boots on marble floors. Dante was still awake, still fighting battles she couldn’t see.

She rose quietly, pulled on a robe,...