After all, Damiano did not escort her back to the server room or to her suite. Rather, he opened a heavy, soundproof door at the back of the war room and revealed what was obviously this man's private sanctum. A spacious, private office filled with the aroma of old books, expensive whiskey, and that faint, spicy cologne of his. Fire flickered in a marble hearth, casting strobing shadows upon walls lined with shelves of business ledgers as well as first editions of Machiavelli and Dante. In the middle stood a gigantic mahogany desk barren of anything save for a lone laptop and a crystal glass. It wasn't a command center; it was the den of the lion, a place of tranquil, utter power, and he was inviting her in. "Sit up here," he said, gesturing to a space at the corner of his desk. The command was simple, but the implications were mind-boggling. Not only was he tasking her to do something, he was bringing her into his private orbit, into the center of his world.

Calm hands connected the listening device he'd sent her with to her laptop, but the frantic pulse within her was every bit a drum against her ribs. He had not gone back to his side of the room. Instead, he pulled a leather armchair and sat near the desk, watching her. The closeness was physical pressure, a constant hum of energy that thickened air, like a low-grade humming sound. She felt the warm embrace of the fire on one side and the heat emanating from him on the other. "Explain it to me," he murmured, so low she almost didn't hear him. She began to describe the monitoring script she was configuring; her voice was cool and technical, in sharp contrast with the chaos in her mind. She mentioned that she was programming the running of scans on all internal communications—emails, encrypted texts, network transfers—for the specific keyword protocol he had brought up. He was listening with unnerving intent, not like a boss receiving a report but more as a master artisan admiring the work of a fellow craftsman.

"He was always obsessed with history," Damiano remarked, swirling his drink. "Especially the Romans. He believed that any empire, however mighty, could be brought down by a single well-placed betrayal. He called it 'the elegant poison.'" Again, he tested her, another insight into Vecchio's psychology, a glimpse into their shared past. It was crumbs thrown for her, a test of her reaction to draw her deeper into his confidence. Serena filed the information away in her mind, cross-referencing it with the cold data of secret knowledge she possessed. Vecchio was not just a traitor, he was a zealot, a dangerous man who made himself into an actor in history. She lifted her eyes to the screen and decided to take a calculated risk, using the insight he had just granted her. "A man like that, a student of history and betrayal," she began, cautiously choosing her words, "he won't use a simple code. Your keyword protocol won't be a word like 'Viper' or 'Midnight.' It will be something personal. Something that feels safe to him because its meaning is known only to you. A memory. A private joke. Something to prove it's really him."

Damiano stopped swirling his drink. For the first time, she saw something genuine swim across his silver eyes: genuine surprise. She had seen the man, not just the data. She had seen just as much, if not more, of the psychology of his enemy as he did. A slow smile spread across his face, beautiful yet dangerous. It was not a seductive smile but rather look of recognition, of finding kindred spirit in the most unlikely of places. "You really are a remarkable creature, Serena Vale," he murmured. He leaned forward, firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. "The keyword is a name. 'Caffè Rosati.' It was a small café in Rome. The first place my father ever met Vecchio." Here was a glimpse into his history, into the very secret that was the foundation for the beginning of this relationship that had now come to this. It was a tremendously trusting act, and yet it was totally based on her deception. The guilt was a throbbing weight in her chest.

She took her time deliberately tapping the keywords into the search protocol. Caffè Rosati-the name glowed on-screen, bridging the gap between a long-dead past and their immediate violent present. Protocol Armed: CAFFÈ ROSATI. The next moment she hit the enter key for the final time: There it was. A tiny notification pulsed in silence in the corner of her screen. It didn't putting an alarm: It blinked quietly and red: KEYWORD_MATCH_DETECTED. SECURE_CHANNEL_3. INCOMING. They both saw it simultaneously. They froze over, like two predators upon hearing that first snap of a twig in the dark. The air in the room now bore electric currents, all intimacy and quiet contemplation forgotten in a split second. No more was the ghost silent. He was on the phone, knocking at the door of his own betrayal. And just like that, Serena, the devil's newly appointed confidant, was about to learn, with the king himself watching over her shoulder.