The dawn that broke over Porto Vento was not the golden, triumphant light Giulia had imagined. It was a cold, sickly grey that clung to the shattered remains of the Caffè Aurora’s front window like a shroud. The air inside the café was thick with the smell of gunpowder, ozone, and the coppery tang of Lucia’s blood where she had slumped against the bar.
Matteo didn't let go of Giulia. He held her with a frantic, bone-crushing strength, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He was shaking—not with fear, but with the sudden, violent release of the tension that had held him together for the last seventy-two hours.
"I knew," he rasped into her skin, his voice broken. "The moment she touched me, I knew. But the face... Giulia, I felt like I was losing my mind."
"I'm here," Giulia whispere
