Rain danced on the rooftop like war drums, a relentless percussion against the glass as if Milan itself was bracing for the chaos to come. The sky had split open hours ago, painting the city in a sheet of cold silver, and now everything below shimmered like an omen.
Rose DeLuca sat curled in the shadows of Killian Rizzo’s private lounge, draped in black velvet and rage. The room smelled of old books, whiskey, and quiet power. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the cityscape, but her eyes were fixed on the man in front of her.
Killian sat in silence, spinning a small gold coin between his fingers. He hadn’t said a word since she arrived, and neither had she. Just sat there, both of them existing in the kind of silence that carried too much weight. A silence that knew things. Carried
