Vera

The drive back to Palermo was a blur of rain, headlights, and silence.

Every mile between Rome and the sea felt like another nail driven into my chest.

The smell of smoke still clung to my hair, to my hands — proof that Nicolas had been real, that his warmth hadn’t been just another dream. I replayed the image over and over in my head: the flash, the sound, the way his body fell.

But there wasn’t time to grieve.

Not when the Council had said the child is a priority.

Vanessa.

My ...