The villa was quiet, but the tension was suffocating. The storm of the previous night had left a mark—bullet-riddled walls, overturned furniture, and a lingering sense of vulnerability that neither Dante nor Isabella could shake. Every shadow, every creak, every subtle movement felt amplified, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next strike.

Isabella sat at the edge of the sofa, knees drawn to her chest, eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace. The adrenaline that had carried her through the last ambush was fading, replaced by a gnawing fear—and something more dangerous: anticipation. She could still feel Dante’s presence everywhere, the echo of...