The dawn broke over Tuscany with hesitant gold.

Mist drifted through the cypress trees, softening the scars left by the night before. The grounds of Villa Moretti were littered with black SUVs, shattered glass, and the lingering smell of gunpowder — a battlefield disguised as a home.

Inside, the villa was eerily quiet. The chaos had died, but its echo still lingered in the walls.

Dante sat at the long oak table in the main hall, a cup of untouched coffee in front of him. His shirt was torn, streaked with dried blood — not all of it his own. The bandage on his forearm was fresh, the gauze stark...