The words were plain. No self-pity. No apology. Just the truth.
They searched the house again. This time, they checked every corner, opened every drawer. The air smelled faintly of dust and stale coffee, like no one had been here in days. Floorboards creaked under their weight. In the kitchen, sunlight from the grimy window cut across the table where something new lay—a single sheet of thick paper.
The handwriting was neat, almost fancy, the kind that looked out of place in a place like this. Isabella's stomach tightened before she even read it.
If you want to see her alive, come alone. Midnight. The old warehouse on Via Appia. Come armed and she dies.
Her pulse skipped. Her eyes ran over the words twice, but they didn't change.
"Vittorio," Matteo said, holding the note between his fingers. His jaw was set tight, the muscles moving as he ground his teeth.
Rafael stepped closer. "How do you know?" His tone was wary, as if he already knew the answer.
