Chapter 78 The Mother Of The Archive

• The night had fallen over Naples with a humid, almost sticky weight. From the window of the narrow room where Verona had taken refuge, she could hear the roar of motorcycles cutting through the tight streets like blades, and the unsettling murmur of a port that never slept. She had unfolded an old map on the table, its frayed edges carrying ink marks that looked like scars across the geography. It was there, between hidden folds, that she discovered something she had not expected: a note written in delicate handwriting, painfully familiar.
• The words, though brief, burned like embers on the paper:
• “Verona, blood never forgets. This is not about Dante, nor about Zoe. It is about you. –E.V.”