The afternoon sun hung above Florence beneath a sky so clear it appeared almost painted, and travelers moved through the international airport with the ordinary concerns of ordinary lives while completely unaware that several continents away entire governments were quietly rewriting reports connected to San Diego. Rolling suitcases crossed polished floors. Departure boards changed minute by minute. Voices blended into a constant murmur beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Isabella Hart emerged from the arrival gate carrying a leather briefcase and a level of exhaustion she refused to acknowledge because admitting fatigue often encouraged mistakes, and mistakes were a luxury she had never allowed herself. Her dark hair remained pinned neatly despite the long flight, and the focused expression she carried suggested someone already working through problems before officially arriving at the investigation.
