The rain came without warning.

By dawn, the once-clear horizon had turned into a blur of gray. Waves pounded against the cliffs below the villa, and lightning flashed across the sea like veins of light.

Isabella stood at the window, one arm wrapped around herself, watching the storm swallow the morning. Her reflection stared back at her — eyes darker than she remembered, face drawn but fierce.

Behind her, the soft shuffle of Dante’s boots echoed. He’d been up before sunrise, pacing, checking the perimeter, loading the black duffel with guns and forged passports. Every move was methodical, practiced. The rhythm of a man preparing for war again.

He stopped...