The dawn in Rome was fragile, a thin veil of gold brushing against the rooftops, promising safety that didn’t exist. Inside the villa, Isabella paced the sitting room, every step measured, every breath deliberate. Her mind replayed the night’s events: Dante taking on the attackers alone, the black SUV, the rain-slicked streets, and the way his eyes—despite the blood and pain—had found hers, locking her into a promise she refused to doubt.

Luca was hunched over his laptop at the far corner, fingers flying across the keyboard, decoding intercepted messages and monitoring security feeds. “They’re regrouping,” he said without looking up, voice tense. “We’ve only got a narrow window before...