Vienna breathed a different kind of history. Where Florence was a sun-drenched dream of the Renaissance, Vienna was a symphony in stone, a city of Habsburg grandeur, Freudian intellect, and the lingering whisper of empires. As their private jet descended, Isabella watched the Baroque spires and the serpentine curve of the Danube emerge from the clouds, her stomach a tight knot of anticipation and dread. This wasn't just a trip; it was a pilgrimage to the ghost of the man she thought she knew.
Alessandro sat beside her, his presence a steadying force. He had barely looked at his phone during the flight, his attention solely on her, his silence more comforting than any words. He understood the sanctity of this mission. This was about her peace.
"The painting is with a collector named Klaus
