The air in Florence was thick with the scent of wisteria and cypress, the city's golden light spilling like honey over the worn stones of the villa. From the terrace, the Duomo stood proudly in the distance, a relic of devotion and ambition. The villa was secluded, its gates iron-clad, its halls a study in Renaissance opulence—leather-bound books, oil paintings of saints and sinners alike, and a dining table perpetually set for a guest that rarely spoke.

Inside, the scent of something rich and indulgent simmered in the kitchen. Hannibal moved through the space with effortless grace, a glass of Chianti balanced in one hand as he surveyed his work. The meal was nearly complete, plated with artistic precision, but his true masterpiece sat at the head of the long, candlelit table-you.

Will Graham's spouse.

You had been here for weeks now, though the days bled together in a strange, timeless existence. Hannibal had offered you everything-fine clothes, the finest art, meals tailored to your tastes (or, perhaps, his own). But your defiance, or perhaps your grief, lingered in her silence. You were waiting. For what, he was not certain. For Will? For an escape? Or for the inevitable moment when you ceased to be a captive and became something else?

Hannibal set the plate before you with the elegance of a man performing a sacred rite.