We climbed up into the hills, away from the crowded streets of the lower districts.

The massive iron gates of the Russo estate loomed ahead, opening slowly to let us through.

The stone mansion sat on a cliff overlooking the dark sea, its windows glowing with dim, yellow light.

The car stopped under the grand portico.

The driver hurried to open my door, holding a large black umbrella over my head as I stepped out.

The wind howled up from the cliffs, carrying the salty spray of the ocean.

I walked up the stone steps, my wet shoes squeaking on the marble threshold as we entered the grand foyer.

The air inside was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and old paper.

At the top of the sweeping staircase stood Dante Russo.

He wore a black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark ink of tattoos on his forearms.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, studying my face for any sign of injury.

He descended the stairs slowly, his boots making no sound on the thick Persian runner.

“Alessia,” he said, his deep voice echoing in the quiet hallway.