The Italian police sirens in the distance were nothing more than a background melody to the clinking of silverware inside the villa. Nala sat across from Dante at a long mahogany table that could seat forty, yet the silence between them was heavy enough to crush the lungs of a normal human.
Dante had traded his tactical gear for a charcoal-grey suit, though the silver plates on the left side of his face shimmered under the chandelier light, a constant reminder of the volcano. He cut his steak with surgical precision, the blade of his knife scraping against the fine china with a sound that made Nala’s teeth ache.
"You haven't touched your wine, Nala," Dante said. His voice was a rasping vibration, more machine than man now. "It’s a 1945 Petrus. It’s older than the Board, and twice as expe
