The first light of dawn spilled through the tall windows, brushing gold across the tangled sheets. For the first time in months, Dante Moretti woke without the sound of gunfire or his own nightmares. Only the hush of the room greeted him—and the quiet rhythm of Isabella’s breathing beside him.

He lay still for a moment, tracing the pale streak of sunlight that crossed her shoulder. The world outside was still dangerous, the blood feud far from finished, yet here, in this sliver of morning, time bent around them. He could almost believe they were ordinary lovers and not fugitives who had bled their way through the night.

Isabella stirred,...