The Morano estate slept beneath a false calm.
From the highest balcony of the west wing, Luca watched the dawn crawl like spilled fire over the horizon, its pale light spilling through the fog that hung low over the courtyard.
He hadn't moved in hours.
Below, the guards shifted in silence, their boots sinking into gravel that once echoed proudly through these halls.
Even the birds dared not sing. The Rite of Silence had that effect—it stretched its shadow beyond the chamber, bleeding into every corner of the estate until sound itself became an unwelcome trespass.
He could almost feel it—the pulse of that chamber deep beneath the manor, where stone met soul and secrets met judgment.
Where she was.
His woman —Alessia.
Luca's fingers tightened around the railing.
