The Mediterranean was not the blue paradise of the postcards. Tonight, under the jagged shadow of the Amalfi cliffs, the water was a churning, obsidian throat, swallowing the light of a fractured moon.
Lila stood on the deck of the *Aletheia*, a stripped-down racing yacht that Ethan had kept hidden in a private cove near Positano. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging like tiny lashes. Behind her, the silhouette of Italy was fading into a blur of orange streetlamps and ancient stone.
She clutched the silver locket against her chest, the weight of the memory chip inside feeling like a hot coal against her skin. Her mother’s voice still echoed in the chambers of her mind not as a digital command, but as a haunting, maternal warning.
*They’re coming for the nursery.*
Lila
