POV: Emilia Conti
When the noise finally stopped, it was unbearable.
No sirens. No alerts. No whispered updates threading through rooms that had forgotten how to rest. Just silence—wide, echoing, and heavy with everything it carried away.
I hadn't expected that.
I stood alone in the temporary apartment Strauss had arranged, staring at a wall that didn't belong to me. No photos. No clutter. Nothing to anchor memory. It felt like standing inside a pause that didn't know how to end.
This was the cost no one talked about.
After exposure.
After the truth.
After survival.
Alessio arrived without knocking.
He moved carefully now, shoulder still healing, but the way he looked at me hadn't changed. That steadiness was its own kind of weight.
"They transferred Luciano," he said quietly.
"Where?" I asked.
"Federal holding," he replied. "Isolated."
I nodded once. "And Gianna?"
"Testifying tomorrow," he said. "Full cooperation."
Another nod.
"And Dante?" I asked.
