At the end stands a door that doesn't match the rest: wooden, dark, ancient, with iron bolts that have been forcibly broken.
Damian studies it, jaw tightening.
"These bolts were shot open… recently."
"Open it," Isabella says, breath catching.
He does.
The room beyond is small, dimly lit even when Damian turns on the flashlight.
It is nothing like the rest of the villa.
It is preserved.
Untouched.
Waiting.
A single mannequin stands in the center wearing a delicate gown shimmering silver, threaded with subtle serpent patterns along the sleeves.
Isabella's pulse spikes.
She knows that design.
Her mother wore something similar in old pictures before the sickness that supposedly killed her.
But her voice cracks when she sees the next object.
A small glass vial sitting on a pedestal.
Dark red liquid glows inside, labeled simply:
"Moretti Bloodline."
Her breath shatters.
Damian steps closer, face stone-hard.
