The descent was a journey into a different kind of hell—one that didn't burn, but froze. The air grew thick with the smell of sulfur and ancient, stagnant brine. Seraphina moved with her hand against the damp stone, her mind reeling from Dante’s words. My father, Luca.
If Luca was the father, then the "exchange" he had mentioned wasn't just a political trade; it was a decades-long infiltration. The Ledger wasn't a forgery of the past; it was a blueprint for a coup.
"Stop," Dante whispered.
They emerged into a space that defied the laws of the mountain. Unlike the sapphire bioluminescence of the first grotto, this chamber was lit by artificial, warm-spectrum LED strips tucked into the crevices of the rock. It was a high-tech bunker carved into the belly of Sicily. Monitors lined one wall
