The pattern was set. Alessandro would receive a provocative message, his rage would ignite, and he would charge toward the flame, forcing Isabella and Marco to devise a desperate, last-minute plan to pull him from the brink. It was a dance they had performed too many times, its steps worn into the marble floors of the villa and the scarred pathways of their hearts.
But as Alessandro read Giancarlo’s panicked message, his body already tensing for the familiar, furious pivot, Isabella did not brace for the impact. She did not begin calculating contingencies. She broke the pattern.
She reached out, not to touch him, but to the priceless Ming dynasty vase standing on the console beside her. With a calm, deliberate sweep of her arm, she sent it crashing to the floor. The explosion of blue-and
