Naples had always thrummed with life: fishermen shouting on the docks, the perfume of roasting chestnuts wafting through narrow streets, children darting between market stalls as vendors barked prices in staccato bursts of dialect. But now the city’s heartbeat was off-rhythm. The streets still hummed, but with unease. Whispers clung to the air like smoke, curling into the ears of merchants, politicians, even the priests whose prayers could not quite drown out the scent of blood.
The Rossis are slipping.
The Morettis are circling.
There will be war.
Adriana Rossi heard the whispers too, even inside her father’s villa, a fortress of marble and shadow. The rumors crept through cracks in the walls, carried on the hushed voices of servants who thought she could not hear.
“They say the More
