The air in the extraction SUV was thick with the smell of ozone and the metallic tang of spent brass. As the vehicle tore through the cobblestone streets of Trastevere, the Roman night blurred into a smear of gold and shadow. Seraphina sat in the back seat, her hands trembling—not from fear, but from the cold, crystalline realization of how thoroughly they had been played.
Beside her, Alessandro was a silhouette of jagged edges. He was reloading his Beretta, the rhythmic clack-slide of the metal acting as a grim heartbeat to the silence. On her other side, Gia was curled into a ball, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at the floorboards.
"Vincenzo," Seraphina whispered, the name feeling like a shard of glass in her throat. "The Curator. He didn't just find us in London, Alessandro. He sum
