ALONZO’S POV
The villa in Florence reeked of secrets. Not the kind whispered behind silk curtains or traded in marble hallways—these were the kind buried beneath stone, wrapped in blood and bone.
I stood frozen beneath the window, the name still echoing through the room like a shot fired in my brain.
Giovanni Castio.
He wasn’t a ghost. He wasn’t a rumor.
He was real.
Alive.
And sitting in that room like he still had the right to breathe air under the same sky as Serafina.
Enzo nudged me. “You gonna stare at the curtain all night or tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“That’s Serafina’s father,” I whispered.
His eyes widened. “Il bastardo?”
“The same one.”
The voice inside shifted from soft murmurs to cold certainty. Giovanni spoke with a tone too polished, too composed for a man
