(Alessandro’s POV)
The decision, once made, settled over the penthouse with the quiet, heavy weight of an impending storm. New York. We were walking into the heart of the beast, and every hour, every minute until our departure, was a carefully measured move in the most dangerous game of our lives.
I woke before dawn, a habit ingrained from a decade of sleeping with one eye open. I turned my head on the pillow and found Isabella already awake, propped up on one elbow, a tablet in her hand. The soft glow of the screen illuminated the intense, focused expression on her face. She wasn’t looking at gossip or news. She was studying the floor plans of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where the Medici Ball would be held. She was already on the battlefield.
A wave of emotion, so fierce it was alm
