The first sliver of dawn was a pale, cold line at the edge of the world. Brianna watched it from Adrian’s bed, her body warm where it was tucked against his, her mind already a riot.

His breathing was deep and even, one arm a heavy, possessive weight across her waist. The peace of the night before—the gelato, the confession, the slow, deliberate way he’d loved her—felt like a dream pressed under glass. Now, in the grey light, the reality of her mother’s captivity was a vise around her lungs. The strategy was formed, the alliance sealed, but the waiting was a silent scream in her blood.

She needed to move. To think in motion. Running had always been her reset, the rhythm of her feet on pavement organizing the chaos in her head. Here, there was no pavement, only the promise of gardens and guarded grounds. It was a calculated risk. Staying curled in his bed felt like surrender to the panic. Moving felt like agency.

She extracted herself with forensic care, sliding from under his arm, pausing when he stirred. He didn’t wake. She dressed in the simple athletic clothes she’d packed—black leggings, a fitted grey tank—and padded silently from the room. In the kitchen, she found a notepad by a sleek, modern phone. Her handwriting was a precise, sharp contrast to the opulent marble.

Gone for a run on the grounds. Needed air. Back soon. – B

She propped it against the espresso machine, where he’d see it. A courtesy. A thread.

Marco was in the main hall, speaking in low Italian into a comms unit. He turned, his expression shifting from professional neutrality to mild alarm as he took in her attire. “Signorina Sterling. It is early.”

“I need to run. Clear my head. I’ll stay on the property.” Her voice was calm, leaving no room for debate. “Where are the boundaries?”