War never announced itself the way people expected.
It didn't arrive with sirens or speeches or a clean line between before and after. It seeped. It settled into the cracks. It waited until people relaxed—until they believed the worst had already passed.
Matthew felt it the moment he woke up.
Not a sound. Not a message. Just the wrong kind of quiet.
He lay still in the dim bedroom, Vinny warm against his side, breath slow and even. The curtains fluttered faintly with the early morning breeze, light barely touching the floor. Everything looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Matthew carefully slid out of bed, pulling on a shirt without buttoning it, moving on instinct alone. Years in the Mercato had taught him one thing better than anything else: calm was never neutral. Calm was either earned… or manufactured.
He stepped into the hallway.
Guards stood where they were supposed to be. Maids moved softly, efficiently. No alarms. No tension on their faces.
And yet.
