Victor woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows.
For a disorienting moment, he didn't know where he was.
The bed was too soft, the room too large, the air smelled like lavender and safety instead of damp stone and fear.
Then memory crashed back—Milan, Fox, the cellar, the escape, Luciano's arms, *you're home*—and Victor's chest tightened with relief so intense it hurt.
He was at the Romano estate. In Rome. Safe.
He sat up slowly, muscles protesting.
His body felt like one giant bruise, every movement a reminder of the past few days.
But he was clean though the memory was hazy—and dressed in soft pajamas that were definitely not his.
The room itself was beautiful.
Cream walls, dark wood furniture, a view of the gardens through tall windows.
Peaceful. Calm. Everything Milan hadn't been.
A soft knock at the door made Victor tense before he could stop himself.
"Victor?" A familiar voice, warm "Are you awake?"
