The Tyrrhenian Sea was a cold, indifferent tomb. The roar of the explosion atop the cliff was a muffled thunder beneath the surface, a concussive wave that vibrated through my bones. I fought the weight of my soaked dress, my lungs screaming for oxygen as the dark water threatened to pull me into the abyss. Then, a hand—scarred, powerful, and familiar—clutched my collar and hauled me upward.
I broke the surface gasping, the night air tasting of salt and burning cedar. Above us, the villa was a jagged silhouette of orange flame and collapsing stone, a crown of fire resting on the brow of Positano. But my eyes weren't on the wreckage. They were fixed on the black shape rising through the smoke.
The helicopter hovered, its rotors whipping the sea into a frantic spray. Viktor sat in the open
