The high-pitched whine of the private jet’s engines began to fade into a steady, rhythmic hum as the Gulfstream G650ER climbed above the Italian Alps. Inside the cabin, the air was pressurized, filtered, and scented with a hint of sandalwood—a stark contrast to the scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne that had lingered in the boardroom with Enzo Ricci.

Isabella sat in a buttery leather armchair, her blazer discarded on the seat beside her. She unbuttoned her cuffs, revealing the faint, jagged scar on her wrist—a souvenir from a childhood she had spent running from her father’s enemies. Now, she was the one people ran from.