The air in the Villa Borghese ballroom crystallized into a suffocating stillness. The rhythmic pulse of the string quartet continued, a mocking soundtrack to a standoff that threatened to erase the cream of Roman society. Seraphina stood at the center of the storm, her hand still resting in Alessandro’s, her active protagonist mind already cataloging the exits, the guards, and the lethal proximity of Luca’s thumb to the detonator.
Luca looked like a man who had crawled out of the mouth of a volcano. His skin was a map of burn scars, and his eyes—once filled with a desperate, protective fire—were now hollow pits of obsidian. He wasn't the brother-figure she had trusted in the grotto; he was a weapon that had been re-forged by Valentina’s cruelty.
"Luca, look at me," Seraphina said, her vo
