The boss didn't blink. He reached out, his ink-stained fingers brushing the loose strands of hair away from my forehead, his touch terrifyingly gentle yet completely immovable. "A ghost doesn't know her own reflection, maybe," he murmured, his breath hot against my temple. "Look at the corner of your left eye. The faint crescent scar. My wife got it falling off a horse in Sicily when she was twelve. You have it, too. Down to the millimeter."

The morning air in the Moretti estate was crisp, carrying the distant scent of pine from the surrounding hills. Ten years of peace had smoothed the jagged edges of our lives, transforming a fortress of fear into a genuine home. Yet, in the underworld, absolute peace is a fragile illusion.

I was in the east wing archive room, organizing old ledger books when a soft click echoed from the heavy mahogany door.

Dante stepped inside, his expression unreadable, a sealed cream-colored envelope in his hand. The silver threads at his temples only added to his striking presence, but the tension in his shoulders told me everything I needed to know.

"What is it?" I asked, setting down a leather-bound journal.

"A delivery," Dante said quietly, walking over and placing the envelope on the desk. "Hand-delivered to the front gates by a courier who vanished before security could intercept him."

I looked at the envelope. Emblazoned across the front in stark, black calligraphy was a single name: Mara Moretti. No return address. Just a wax seal bearing an emblem I hadn't seen in a decade—a serpent swallowing its own tail.

"The Ouroboros," I whispered, a cold shiver crawling up my spine. "I thought they were eradicated when the Phoenix Syndicate fell."

"So did intelligence," Dante replied, his voice dropping into that familiar, dangerous register. He stood behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his thumb gently tracing the collar of my blouse. "Open it."