The Bellanti estate did not sleep.

It waited.

The marble floors remembered footsteps long after they faded. The chandeliers reflected faces that no longer lived. Even the air felt old—heavy with secrets, vows, and blood spilled in the name of legacy.

Vera felt it pressing against her skin as she crossed the threshold.

This house did not forget women like her.

Women who refused to bow.

Nicolas’s hand tightened around hers—not possessive, not controlling, but grounding. A silent ...