The room where Svetlana was being held was small, yet decorated with a restrained luxury that only deepened the irony of her situation. The curtains, pristine white, clashed with the reality of the prison they represented, and the window—secured with wrought-iron bars—let in a faint light that barely softened the chill of dawn in Gambarie d’Aspromonte. From there, a mist-covered mountain landscape unfolded—a cruel reminder of the freedom that had been taken from her.

Svetlana paced back and forth, arms tightly crossed over her chest, trying to quiet the storm raging inside her. She stopped in front of the bed, a piece far too elegant for someone treated as a mere hostage, and let herself collapse onto it. The urge to cry was suffocating, but she wouldn’t allow it. Every tear would be a concession to her captors, a sign of weakness she refused to show.

The metallic click of the lock snapped her out of her thoughts. The door opened slowly, revealing a familiar figure. It was the same wo