The morning sun over the Tyrrhenian Sea was breathtaking, but to me, it felt like a spotlight on a stage I hadn't finished rehearsing for. The safe-house—this new fortress Luciano had chosen—was a masterpiece of brutalist architecture and hidden lethality. Perched on a jagged cliffside, it was surrounded by electrified fences, thermal cameras, and a small army of men who looked like they enjoyed their work a little too much.
I stood on the expansive marble balcony of the master suite, wrapped in one of Luciano’s heavy silk robes. It was far too large for me, the hem pooling around my ankles, but I loved the way it felt. It smelled of him—that intoxicating mix of expensive cedarwood, dark musk, and the faint, lingering scent of the bourbon he’d finished before dawn. It was a sensory anchor
