Matteo Serrano had spent twenty years learning how to recognize danger.

By 5:00 PM, the atmosphere inside Blackwood Manor had grown suffocatingly thick, charged with an invisible tension that even the domestic staff could feel.

Up in the sprawling master suite, Camille DeLuca sat before her lighted vanity mirror, brushing her long dark hair with slow, rhythmic strokes. She wore a silk emerald robe, her reflection framed by cascading orchids sent by local florists.

When the heavy oak door clicked open, Camille didn't turn around immediately. She assumed it was her personal assistant or the head maid bringing up the updated catering menus.

“Put it on the desk, Elena,” Camille said, her voice smooth and melodic. “And make sure the kitchen knows the canapés need to be gluten-free for the senator’s wife.”

“Elena is busy downstairs,” a deep, resonant voice replied from the doorway.

Camille froze. The hairbrush hovered an inch from her shoulder.

She turned quickly on her velvet stool, pasting a radiant, breathtaking smile across her face as she saw Matteo standing in the doorway.

“Matteo! You’re back early,” she trilled, standing up and gliding across the Persian rug to wrap her arms around his neck. “The Windsor meeting must have been a breeze. I missed you so much today.”

Matteo allowed the embrace, his arms resting loosely at his sides. He inhaled the scent of her expensive French perfume—a scent he had trusted for three years. Beneath it, he suddenly imagined the smell of smoke and gasoline.

“The meeting finished ahead of schedule,” Matteo said evenly, pulling back just enough to look into her bright hazel eyes. “Traffic was clear coming up the north bypass.”

“Thank goodness,” Camille sighed, resting her head against his chest. “I was worried you’d be stuck in that dreadful weather. Are you hungry? I can have the chef prepare something light before your evening calls.”

“No,” Matteo said, his eyes scanning the luxurious room. “Actually, I need to talk to you about something important, Camille.”

Camille pulled back, tilting her head with a look of playful concern. “Oh? Is it about the seating arrangements again? Because I swear, if your uncle insists on sitting next to the ambassador, there’s going to be a diplomatic incident.”

“No. It’s about Sofia.”

The playful light in Camille’s eyes flickered and died for a fraction of a second—so fast that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have missed it. But Matteo was not ninety-nine men. He caught the micro-hesitation, the sudden tightening of the muscles around her jaw.

“Sofia?” Camille repeated softly, her voice dropping an octave into a sympathetic murmur. “Matteo... why are we talking about her today? You know how much it hurts you to dredge that up.”

“I was thinking about the car,” Matteo said, stepping closer to her vanity table, his fingers brushing against a small silver jewelry box. “The police said it was a fuel-line failure. But today, looking at my blue sedan in the garage... I started wondering if someone didn't help my sister’s car along.”

Camille’s breath hitched. She forced herself to smile, though her hands began to tremble slightly against the silk of her robe.

“Darling, that was five years ago. The federal investigators cleared the scene. Why are you torturing yourself with ghosts?”

“Because ghosts have a habit of coming back,” Matteo said quietly, turning to look her dead in the eye. “Sometimes, they even leave lunchboxes under cars.”

The color drained from Camille’s face so fast it looked as though someone had struck her with a physical blow. She staggered back against the vanity, her fingers gripping the edge of the mahogany wood for support.

“What... what are you talking about, Matteo?” she whispered, her voice losing its melodic cadence, turning thin and frantic.

Before Matteo could answer, a sharp knock sounded at the bedroom door.

“Come in,” Matteo called out without breaking eye contact with his fiancée.

The door pushed open, and Rafael stepped into the room. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, holding a leather binder beneath his arm.

“Matteo,” Rafael said, offering his trademark warm, brotherly smile. “Tessa tells me you’re back. We need to sign off on the port security manifests before—”

Rafael stopped dead in his tracks.

He saw Camille’s pale, terrified face. He saw Matteo standing motionless by the vanity, his hand resting casually near his holster.