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The next morning, at 6:30 a.m., the quiet of the town was shattered by an urgent call to the local police station. A breathless voice crackled through the line.

“This is Francesca Bianchi,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “I—I’m at the De Angelis villa. Ms. Vittoria... Vittoria Mancini and another man are dead. They're — they are in her bedroom. Please... send someone. Now.”

The officer on duty straightened, eyes narrowing. “Ma’am, stay where you are. We’re sending a team immediately.”

Within minutes, sirens pierced the early morning calm, racing toward the villa where tragedy had just struck.

The police arrived swiftly, the once-quiet villa now buzzing with flashing lights and urgent voices. Inside Vittoria’s bedroom, the scene was grim. Vittoria lay motionless on the bed, her lifeless eyes staring upward. The deep red marks on the neck left no doubt—she had been strangled with brutal force.

But that wasn’t all.

A jagged wound marred her abdomen, blood staining her nightdress and the area around her.

In addition, a man lay sprawled on the floor nearby, a bloodied knife protruding from his abdomen. His skin was pale, and a mixture of deep red and watery blood pooled around him, soaking into the carpet. At first glance, he appeared dead—but a quick check revealed a faint but steady pulse. He was still alive.

“Get someone in here! He is still alive!” one of the officers barked, kneeling beside the injured man.

Paramedics rushed in moments later, stabilizing him as they worked with practiced urgency. He was quickly loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled out of the villa, en route to the hospital under police escort. No one knew who he was yet, but his survival meant one thing: there was still a chance to get answers.

The officers exchanged tense looks. This was no accident — it was a violent, deliberate killing.