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Chapter 11 - The Descent into Darkness

The hum of the Gulfstream’s engines faded the moment the landing gear locked into place on the private tarmac outside Florence. Vincent stepped out into the crisp Tuscan air, carrying Isabella, who stirred lazily against his shoulder. The villa sat perched on a sun-drenched hill overlooking miles of sprawling vineyards, a sanctuary untouched by the blood and smoke of Chicago. For three weeks, life felt like a genuine resurrection. Isabella’s laughter echoed through the stone corridors every morning, and the dark memories of the Lake Forest estate seemed safely buried across the Atlantic.

That illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon when Lev walked onto the terrace, his face pale and rigid.

"Boss, we have a breach," Lev said, keeping his voice low so the children playing in the courtyard wouldn't hear.

Vincent handed Isabella’s sketchbook to me and turned around sharply. "What do you mean a breach? The logistics pipeline was completely scrubbed."

"It wasn't the syndicate, Vincent," Lev replied, holding out a ruggedized satellite phone. "It’s federal. Or someone using federal channels. A priority wire pinged our secure relay in Zurich ten minutes ago. Dominic had a safety net we didn't calculate."

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Vincent took the phone. The screen displayed a single, encrypted text file accompanied by a high-resolution photograph.

It was a picture of Sofia’s grave in Chicago, freshly dug up, with the heavy marble headstone completely shattered into pieces. And resting right on top of the exposed casket was a brand-new, identical white swan music box.

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