The next morning in Milan didn’t rise with sunlight—it broke with smoke.
Black plumes curled over the horizon from the south district, coiling like serpents in the sky. They smeared across the skyline, a dirty smear on an otherwise polished morning. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, muffled behind the thick, bulletproof glass of Rose’s penthouse. But the city wasn’t sleeping through it. Milan was waking up to war.
Rose stood barefoot by the window, coffee steaming in her hand, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes, lined with fatigue and calculation, didn’t blink as she watched the chaos unfold below.
Marcello burst through the double doors without knocking.
“It’s done,” he said, breathless.
Smoke clung to him. Not just the scent—no, it was in the dust on his sleeves,
