That night, lying awake in the dark, Nikoletta stared at the ceiling and listened to every whisper of the house. At dawn, a war could begin—or end. And no one knew who would survive it.
She jolted awake as if her heart had been gripped by an icy hand. Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed, sharp and violent. Her instincts screamed a warning. A heartbeat later, a rough, ragged voice echoed through the hall.
“Letta! Where is she?”
Nikoletta sprang from the bed and rushed into the corridor—barefoot, dressed only in a thin nightgown. On the staircase stood Nico.
His shirt was soaked in blood. His face—twisted with fury. His eyes—wild, searching the hall until they locked onto her.
“Oh God,” she breathed, stumbling toward him. “What happened? Whose blood is that?”
“You?!” he roared, stormi
