The Santoro estate was a fortress of heavy stone and absolute silence. It sat upon the misty hills of the Langhe, surrounded by rows of ancient nebbiolo vines that bled deep purple juice into the autumn barrels.

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon. A cold, damp fog rolled off the hills, wrapping the grand stone mansion in a gray shroud. Matteo was locked in his study on the second floor of the main house, going through international shipping ledgers with his chief capo, Giovanni.

In the east wing, Elena had been called away urgently to assist the head housekeeper with a delivery in the main kitchens. She had told Luna to stay put with her wooden blocks, but a shaft of amber sunlight had broken through the heavy velvet drapes down the long, forbidden east corridor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny fairies.

Luna, drawn by the light and the absolute quiet, slipped out of the side door of the stable block, her small red sneakers pattering silently against the frost-kissed cobblestones of the inner courtyard. She found a service door ajar—left open by a careless delivery man—and wandered inside.

The floors were polished marble that mirrored the chandeliers overhead. Luna gasped softly, her eyes wide with wonder. It was a palace. She walked down the long hall, trailing a small finger along the mahogany wainscoting, entirely unaware that she had crossed the invisible border into Matteo Santoro's world.

Meanwhile, Matteo had stepped out onto the second-floor gallery to clear his head, a glass of undrinked Barolo in his hand. He looked down into the grand foyer below, intending to summon Luca for a report on the Genoa port lines.

Then, he froze.

A sound drifted up from the marble floor below. It wasn't the heavy footstep of a guard or the rustle of a servant's uniform. It was high, sweet, and melodic.