The Castelli villa sat like a slumbering beast atop the cliffs of northern Sicily—hidden behind centuries-old stone walls, shrouded in vineyards and fog, its grandeur whispering of bloodline power and history too dark to be written.
Tricia had seen opulence before—the Knight estate was nothing short of royalty—but this place felt older. Tighter. Trapped in its own legacy.
The air carried a scent of old wood, burning incense, and something colder. Like secrets.
The gates creaked open at exactly 3:00 p.m.
They had arrived.
Christopher’s hand never left the small of her back, not since they left the plane. He was calm on the outside—stoic, controlled—but Tricia could feel the tension rippling through him. Like a storm waiting to erupt under his skin.
Their car pulled into the courtyard
