The secret was a cold weight in the center of Seraphina’s chest, a digital parasite that made the warmth of the villa feel like a deception. As the morning sun crested the peaks of the Nebrodi, painting the honey-colored stone in shades of violent orange, she sat at the breakfast table across from Alessandro. She was watching him cut a piece of crusty bread for Dante, his movements steady and domestic, and she felt the first true fracture in their new peace.
To tell him would be to invite the war back into the house. It would mean admitting that Julian’s ghost hadn't been buried in the grotto, but had hitched a ride in her own biometric signature. It would mean seeing the "Wolf" return to Alessandro’s eyes—the hardening of his jaw, the reach for the rifle, the end of the man she was tryin
