The rain hadn't stopped by dawn.
It fell in thin, relentless sheets, whispering against the windows of the safehouse tucked deep within the forested hills of northern Sicily.
The world felt like it was holding its breath, a fragile pause before the next strike.
Isabella sat near the fire, wrapped in a blanket she didn't remember accepting. Her hands trembled, not from cold, but from everything she had seen burn. Her father's house. Her childhood illusions. Her mother's truth.
Damian stood across from her, his back to the flames, a dark silhouette carved from tension and exhaustion. The bruise on his jaw hadn't faded; the cut at his temple bled anew each time he wiped it with his sleeve. He hadn't slept, none of them had.
Luca entered quietly, a rifle slung over his shoulder, Sophia following behind him. Her face was unreadable, her eyes darting to Isabella, then to Damian.
"Perimeter clear," Luca said. "No sign of Moretti's men."
"Or Adrian?"
