The storm had finally broken.

For the first time in what felt like years, Isabella and Dante were not running. The safehouse stood silent at the edge of the northern coast—a forgotten villa built into the cliffs, overlooking an endless stretch of gray-blue sea. The wind carried the scent of salt and pine, brushing against the broken shutters, whispering stories of what used to be peace.

Dante leaned against the doorway, still in his dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, the bandage around his arm faintly visible beneath the fabric. The night before had left bruises—on his body and on his heart. He could feel Isabella’s presence behind him before she...