The breathing behind me was shallow, wet, and dragged down by a rhythmic, metallic clicking—the sound of an oxygen pump straining against old pipes.

The Rossi estate was burning behind us. The thermite charge in the basement had triggered a secondary explosion in the fuel lines, sending giant plumes of fire and black smoke rising into the midnight sky over the Italian countryside.

I carried Grace in one arm and kept our son tucked safely inside my heavy wool coat, shielded from the freezing rain.

At the edge of the courtyard, near the fountain where six months ago my wife had watched me leave for war, our old butler stood waiting in the rain. He didn't have a weapon. He held the keys to my father’s classic black Maserati.

He looked at me, then at the burning manor, then at the child tucked against my chest.

Slowly, the old man bowed his head, holding out the keys.

“Where will you go, Don Matteo?” he asked quietly.

I took the keys, opening the passenger door to carefully seat Grace and our son inside.

“Matteo doesn't exist anymore,” I said, looking back one last time at the burning hell where I was born, where I was made, and where the Rossi legacy was turning into ash. “And neither does the Rossi family.”

I got into the driver’s seat, revving the engine as the heavy iron gates of the estate opened automatically into the dark, winding road ahead.

Three months later.

A small coastal villa on the southern coast of Portugal.

The sun was rising over the Atlantic Ocean, casting a warm, golden light across the white stone terrace.

Grace was sitting in a wooden rocking chair, nursing our son as the cool ocean breeze ruffled her hair. She looked healthy, the color back in her cheeks, her eyes no longer filled with fear or secrets.

I walked out onto the terrace holding two cups of black coffee, placing one on the table beside her.

“He fell asleep,” she murmured with a soft smile, looking down at our boy, who was fast asleep in her arms, his breathing steady and peaceful.

“He’s safe now,” I said, kissing the top of her head.

My phone, resting on the wooden table, suddenly vibrated.

It was an unlisted, heavily encrypted satellite number from Switzerland.

I picked it up, pressing it to my ear without speaking.

A calm, familiar female voice came through the speaker—a voice that should have been buried under three tons of rubble in the west wing of the estate.

“You always were a brilliant strategist, Matteo,” Victoria Rossi said smoothly. “Did you really think a little fire could destroy forty years of research?”

I felt no fear. No anger. Only a cold, absolute certainty.

“I know you’re alive, Victoria,” I said, staring out at the endless blue horizon. “And I know you’re coming for him.”

“Then you know what happens next,” she replied.

“Yes,” I smiled, watching my son open his eyes—bright, sharp, and shining with the strength of a generation that would never belong to her. “Next time... I won't just burn the estate. I’ll hunt down every single master you ever answered to.”

I hung up the phone, pulled out the SIM card, and dropped it into the ocean below.