The days after the executions bled together in a haze of fear and whispers. The villa that once pulsed with strict order now throbbed with unease. Guards stood at their posts, but their eyes no longer burned with loyalty. Servants moved like ghosts, careful not to draw attention. Every corner seemed heavy with suspicion, as though the walls themselves were listening.
Isla felt it most of all. She carried Dante's paranoia like a cloak every time he looked at her, every time his voice lowered as if secrets slithered between them. The courtyard still smelled faintly of blood, and she could not erase the image of the bodies dragged away, faces she would never forget.
Yet beneath the fear, something else stirred. A current. A subtle rebellion that hummed like a hidden drumbeat.
