The morning sun hit the glass facades of Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II with a blinding, golden glare. The historic shopping arcade was bustling with wealthy tourists and elite locals, a chaotic labyrinth of high-end fashion and echoey marble floors. Dante stood exactly three paces behind Isabella, his hands folded in front of his suit. His eyes darted relentlessly through the crowd, tracking every moving hands and overlapping shadow. Isabella, draped in a midnight-blue trench coat with her heavy diamond leash securely hidden beneath a silk scarf, stopped in front of the Prada display window. She turned to him, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips. "You look tense, Mr. Rossi," she said, her voice a soft, deceptive purr. "Relax. The Marcones wouldn't dare cause a scene under these historic frescoed ceilings. It’s bad for their public relations." "The crowd is a tactical nightmare, signorina," Dante replied, his voice a flat, gravelly rumble. "You’ve made me clear seven