The rain had stopped by the time dawn fully broke over the vineyard.

But the silence that followed was heavy, like the calm after a funeral.

Isabella sat on the cold stone floor of the bunker, her hands stained red. Dante lay against her lap, his face pale beneath the soft glow of the emergency light. His breathing was shallow but steady—proof of life, even if fragile.

She had torn strips from her own blouse to bind his wound. The bleeding had slowed, but it hadn’t stopped completely. Every few minutes, his body twitched as pain rippled through him.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead....