Milan pulsed beneath her boots like a city trying too hard to forget its sins.
Valentina stood at the edge of Piazza San Babila, blending with the crowd in a dark coat, her features hidden beneath a scarf. The air smelled of old stone, espresso, and secrets. She hadn’t walked these streets in years, not since her father held her hand here, pointing out cathedrals and past lives like they were nothing but stories.
But now, every step was war.
Adrian stood beside her, tense beneath his black jacket. He said little, but his presence was grounding. Not comforting. Just real.
“This is the address,” he said quietly, passing her the slip of paper. “Second floor. The man who signed the De Luca protocol works there. Carlo Mancini. Retired intelligence. Now consultant to what's left of the Vasar
