At the D'Este's residence, Otilla was planning her own schemes.
Otilla did not destroy the Rossi family with noise.
She destroyed them with paper.
That was the cruelty of it.
---
The first letter arrived on a Monday morning, slid beneath the door like something ashamed of itself.
Lucia found it while sweeping. At first she didn't open it—just stared at the official seal, the heavy crest pressed into the envelope like a warning.
"Isabella," she called softly. "Come see this."
Isabella wiped her hands and took it. The paper was thick. Expensive. Final.
She broke the seal.
By the second line, the room felt colder.
By the third, her hands began to shake.
Marcello stood when he saw her face. "What is it?"
She handed it to him without speaking.
NOTICE OF RESIDENCY REVIEW.
COMMERCIAL LICENSE SUSPENSION PENDING.
IMMEDIATE COMPLIANCE REQUIRED.
Marcello read slowly, lips parting as if the words might change if he gave them time.
"They can't," he said. "We've done nothing."
Andrea leaned over his shoulder. "What does it mean?"
Isabella swallowed. "It means they're saying we don't belong anymore."
---
The next days unfolded like a bad dream.
Offices that once welcomed them closed doors politely.
Phones rang endlessly and were never answered.
Appointments were postponed, then "lost."
At immigration services, a woman behind a glass window slid papers back toward Lucia without meeting her eyes.
"This is above me," she said. "I suggest you prepare."
"For what?" Lucia asked, voice trembling.
The woman hesitated. Then quietly—"Departure."
---
Marcello argued.
He argued with documents clutched in shaking hands, with proof of tax payments, with records older than the woman behind the desk.
"My family has lived here for generations," he said. "You cannot erase that."
The response was always the same.
"This decision has already been made."
Not reviewed.
Not considered.
Made.
---
Isabella stopped sleeping.
Every night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations, searching for the exact moment where life had tilted against them.
Was it the scholarship?
The call?
The night of the fire?
No.
She knew better.
This was punishment.
And punishment didn't ask for reasons—it only demanded obedience.
---
Then came the eviction notice.
Three days.
That was all.
Three days to pack a lifetime.
Lucia sat on the bed and cried quietly, folding clothes she had sewn herself years ago. Marcello stared at the wall, jaw clenched so tightly Isabella feared it might break.
Andrea slammed his fist against the door. "This isn't fair!"
"No," Marcello said hoarsely. "It isn't."
But fairness had never protected anyone.
---
Isabella tried to call Xavier.
No connection.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Her phone showed No Service where his name used to be.
She messaged him anyway.
Something is wrong.
Please call me.
We're being forced out.
The messages sent.
But never delivered.
Her chest tightened.
---
At the military base, Xavier felt it too.
A strange silence where her voice should have been.
Calls failed.
Messages stalled.
He requested permission to make an external call.
Denied.
He requested again.
Denied.
Then came the order—short, brutal, unquestionable.
All personal communications suspended pending operation.
Xavier stared at the screen.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was containment.
---
On the final morning, the Rossi family stood outside their apartment with suitcases stacked like questions no one would answer.
Neighbors watched from behind curtains.
No one spoke.
The lock changed with a soft mechanical click that sounded louder than a scream.
Lucia pressed a hand to her mouth.
"That's it," she whispered.
Andrea looked back once.
"I hate this place," he said, though his eyes were wet.
Isabella didn't look back at all.
If she did, she knew she wouldn't leave.
---
The airport felt hostile.
Security was excessive.
Questions repeated.
Documents examined too long.
When Marcello's passport was held back, Isabella's heart stopped.
"Problem?" she asked sharply.
The officer glanced at the screen, then at her.
"Routine," he said. "Don't worry."
She didn't believe him.
She didn't breathe again until the document slid back across the counter.
---
At the gate, Lucia squeezed Isabella's hand.
"Whatever happens," she said, "we stay together."
Isabella nodded.
But inside, something was breaking.
Not loudly.
Just enough to change her shape.
---
The plane lifted.
Italy fell away beneath them.
The city shrank into something unrecognizable.
Isabella pressed her forehead to the window, tears blurring lights she had once known by heart.
I didn't even get to say goodbye.
---
Otilla stood in her study as the report arrived.
SUBJECTS RELOCATED.
CONTACT SEVERED.
STATUS: EXILE COMPLETE.
She read it twice.
Then set it aside.
She felt nothing like triumph.
Only satisfaction.
Love could survive distance.
But exile?
Exile rewrote people.
She poured herself a drink.
"To silence," she murmured.
---
The first weeks abroad were worse than Isabella expected.
The language felt wrong in her mouth.
The streets didn't recognize her footsteps.
The air smelled unfamiliar.
Their savings dwindled quickly.
Marcello found work unloading crates.
Lucia baked at night for strangers who didn't know her name.
Andrea enrolled in school where no one cared where he came from.
Isabella took shifts at a clinic, her qualifications questioned, her confidence eroded.
Every night, she checked her phone.
No messages.
No calls.
Nothing.
---
Xavier broke protocol on the tenth day.
He tried to reach her again.
Nothing.
He requested access logs.
Denied.
He requested leave.
Denied.
Then a file appeared on his desk—unmarked, deliberate.
ROSSI FAMILY — RELOCATED.
REASON: NATIONAL INTEREST.
His blood went cold.
National interest.
That was Otilla's language.
---
He confronted his superior.
"This is abuse of power," Xavier said, voice controlled but dangerous. "They're civilians."
The response was calm.
"Drop it."
Xavier didn't.
That was the moment his career changed forever.
---
Isabella stopped crying after the first month.
Grief exhausted itself.
What replaced it was quieter.
Heavier.
At night, she pressed the phone to her chest and whispered his name like a prayer that never answered.
Sometimes she dreamed of him—standing across a street, unable to cross.
Sometimes she dreamed of fire.
---
Andrea noticed.
"You don't smile anymore," he said one evening.
Isabella shrugged. "I'm tired."
He studied her. "You're lonely."
She didn't deny it.
---
Across borders and orders and deliberate silence, two lives bent under the same weight.
Otilla had succeeded.
Not in killing them.
But in separating them.
And sometimes, that was worse.
---
On her balcony, Otilla watched the city settle into night.
"They'll forget," she said softly. "They always do."
But somewhere far away, in a room that smelled nothing like home, Isabella Rossi closed her eyes and made a silent vow.
If love survived this…
Nothing would ever be able to kill it.
And somewhere else entirely, Xavier Hernandez stood very still, knowing one thing with terrifying clarity:
Otilla D'Este had not ended the war.
She had only ensured—
That when they met again,
There would be no mercy left.