The helicopters don’t leave.
By late afternoon, they’ve settled into a pattern—circling, zooming, backing off just enough to refuel and return. The press at the gates has turned into a camp: cameras on tripods, reporters in different shades of outrage, fans in homemade shirts, and hastily printed signs.
Even from inside the villa, I can feel the hum of it.
Like a beehive pressed against the walls.
“Status?” Dante asks.
We’re in his office with the curtains drawn, the outside world reduced to muffled noise and a flickering live feed on one of his monitors.
Mia has three devices open, fingers flying.
“Networks frothing,” she says. “#FreeLuna and #MrsMoretti are both trending. Police are trying to keep the vans from blocking the road. Fans chanting your names like a cursed duet.”
She
