Chapter 38. The Cost

The first light of dawn bruised the horizon, a thin line of gold cutting through the gray. The villa was quiet, the kind of quiet that comes after ruin.

Ezio sat in his study, a cigarette burning down between his fingers, the ashtray already full—a small mountain of regret and smoke. The air reeked of tobacco and whiskey. His jacket was thrown across the chair, his tie half undone.

He’d been sitting there for hours, replaying that damned moment in his memory.

Margherita was gone.

They’d taken her.

And he’d let them.

His jaw tightened. He’d seen her face as they hauled her away: wide eyes, disbelief, the sharp, raw shine of betrayal. He’d told himself that one wrong move would have gotten her killed. That restraint was the only way to keep her alive.

It still felt like cowardice.

He lit another cigarette. The flame trembled slightly before he drew it close. Smoke curled upward, soft and silver, vanishing before it reached the ceiling.