The next morning, before the sun even crested over the olive hills of Calabria, Talana was already awake. The world was still. Mist hovered low across the Sanchiano estate like a veil of secrets. She slipped into her mother’s black athletic gear, the fabric hugging her frame, her reflection in the mirror reminding her of the woman whose blood still whispered vengeance in her veins.

Outside, the air was sharp, tasting faintly of gunpowder and rain. The training grounds stretched before her, ...