The morning in the East Tower didn't arrive with the warmth of the Sicilian sun; it arrived with the cold, rhythmic clinking of a silver tea service.

I hadn't slept. I had spent the hours between Alessandro’s televised threat and dawn pacing the perimeter of the room, measuring the distance from the bed to the reinforced glass. I was a mathematician of despair, calculating how many steps it took to lose my mind.

The door hummed and slid open. Marcella stepped in, but she wasn't alone. Behind ...