The clock in the grand gallery of Villa Bellini struck three in the morning as Dante and Valentina returned from the mountain bloodbath of Monreale. Outside, the night wind howled off the Tyrrhenian Sea, whipping waves against the base of the cliffs two hundred feet below, spraying fine mists of salt through the wrought-iron balustrades. Inside the master suite, the fire of olive wood had burned down to a deep,…
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