The grand library of the Villa Valeriano smelled of woodsmoke, old leather, and the heavy, metallic tang of panic. Outside, the storm had finally broken, leaving Lake Como shrouded in a suffocating, pitch-black fog that pressed hard against the bulletproof glass windows.Don Lorenzo sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his face the color of spoiled milk. His gold signet ring tapped a frantic, irregular rhythm against a crystal tumbler of neat scotch. Standing beside him, Enzo Vanni was nursing a heavily bandaged hand, his face slick with sweat.The double doors swung open.Dante walked in first, his face a flawless, unreadable block of granite. His left sleeve had been torn open, revealing a thick white layer of medical gauze tightly bound over his bullet graze, stained with a single faint flower of fresh crimson.Exactly three paces behind him came Isabella.She looked a masterpiece of trauma. Her dark hair was tangled and damp, a few wild curls clinging to her pale cheeks. The char
Magbasa pa