The silence that followed the stranger’s pronouncement was more deafening than the explosion at the villa. In the Caffè Aurora, the air seemed to crystallize, turning brittle and cold. The smell of fresh cedar was replaced by the scorched, metallic scent wafting off the man in the parka—the smell of a grave that had refused to stay shut.
Giulia’s gaze was locked on the blackened key resting on her bar. It was a relic of a life she thought she had buried, a physical tether to the brother she had mourned and the father she had finally begun to understand. She looked from the key to the man’s face—a ruin of scar tissue and hollowed-out eyes.
"The Prime Minister," Matteo whispered, his hand white-knuckling the hilt of the knife at his back. "Vincenzo Rossi. You died in the Tyrrhenian Sea fif
