The silver ring on Giulia’s finger felt heavier than it had an hour ago. It wasn't the weight of the metal, but the sudden, jarring realization that the "peace" of Porto Vento was built on a foundation of digital ghosts. For months, she had allowed herself to believe that the ledger was closed, the debts paid in ash and salt. She had stood behind the counter of Caffè Aurora and watched the sun rise, thinking the horizon was finally empty of threats.
She was wrong.
Matteo was in the back office, cross-referencing the morning’s supply manifests, when the espresso machine’s integrated tablet—a custom modification Luca had installed months ago—began to bleed crimson. Not a malfunction, but a notification. The deep, pulsing red light reflected off the chrome steam wands, casting long, bloody
