The room above the fish market was a tomb. Concrete walls, rusted pipes, and the reek of brine and rot pressed into every breath.Fitting.

Alessandro didn’t just load his weapon. He consecrated it. Each slide of the magazine, each click of the chamber was ritual, a vow inked in steel. His face was carved from marble, eyes obsidian-black, hollowed by the single, unyielding purpose that now ruled him. Protect what’s mine. Burn anyone who dared to touch it.

Eva was beside him—not broken, ...