Heavy cream stock, embossed with the Morello crest—a wolf wrapped in thorns. No return address. No explanation. Just a time, a place, and her father’s personal seal pressed beneath it in blood-red wax.

Now Y/N stands in the penthouse foyer of Morello Tower, fifty stories above Milan. The elevator music still hums in her ears.

The doors behind her slide shut with a soft, final hiss.

Before her: a corridor of black marble, cold as a grave. A single guard at the end—broad-shouldered, stone-faced, hands clasped behind his back.