The villa was no longer a sanctuary of power. It was a cage rattling with fear, suspicion, and unspoken defiance. The air itself felt heavy, thick with whispers that Dante could not silence no matter how many bodies he left bleeding on the marble floors.
Isla felt it too. The cracks in his throne were no longer hairline fractures—they were gaping wounds. Each day she saw it in the way the guards looked at him, in the tremor that entered their voices when they gave him reports. They feared him, yes, but fear was no longer enough to hold their loyalty.
Dante paced the main hall like a lion trapped in its own den. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark rings beneath them deeper than ever. He had not slept. Rumors of Luca's growing forces had kept him awake, gnawing at his sanity.
Isla sat at the long dining table, her hands folded neatly, her expression calm. She knew better than to show the storm raging inside her. She had seen Dante kill men for less than a misplaced glance.
