The day began with the faint hum of the sea, its rhythm distant yet unrelenting, like the steady pulse of something vast waiting to strike. The quiet from the morning had begun to thin, and Isabella could feel it—like the air before lightning. Dante hadn’t spoken much since they left the bedroom, but she knew that silence. It wasn’t peace anymore. It was calculation.

Luca sat at the far end of the safehouse table, his eyes flicking from Dante to the stack of papers spread before them. “The coordinates match what we pulled from the Russian’s tracker,” he said, tapping the map. “Warehouse outside Naples. They’re moving fast. If we...