The Giuseppe Mazzini docked quietly in the port of Taranto, the hull scarred from its clash with a British cruiser. Isabella stood on the bridge, her gaze distant as the shipyard workers began their repairs. The ship would be out of action for at least a few days.

She ran a hand through her short, dark hair, the fatigue of the battle weighing on her. The crew had fought hard, but the damage was enough to call for a break. Isabella had earned one as well.

“Captain, the ship will be good to go in about three days,” her first officer, Lieutenant Marco, reported.

Isabella nodded, her gaze shifting to the distant city. “Good. I’ll head out for the night. Let me know if anything urgent arises.”

After she gave a brief nod, she turned and left the bridge, heading toward her small manse just outside the city. It was a quiet retreat, her escape from the pressures of command. She’d only be there for a short time, but the solace of home—however small it might be—would be enough to rest and recharge.