The world outside had gone quiet, as if the night itself were holding its breath for them. The safe house sat on the edge of the cliffs above Amalfi, far enough from the city lights that the stars felt impossibly close. Salt wind blew through the broken shutters, carrying the scent of the sea into the dimly lit room. Isabella stood at the window, her fingers tracing the old glass, watching the dark waves crash against the rocks below.

Behind her, Dante moved with the same silent power he always carried. The sound of his footsteps—measured, deliberate—seemed to echo through her chest. Hours ago, they had spilled blood together, sealing...