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“Hi, Officer Rossi,” Francesca said with a soft nod, her hands nervously wringing a dish towel. “You must be the detectives from England. Thank you for coming. Oh, sorry, and you are?”

Alice stepped forward with a polite smile, introducing herself. “I’m Alice Whitmore, Detective Taylor’s assistant. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Francesca nodded in acknowledgment, her expression still tense. “Of course. Please, come in.”

James gave her a polite nod. “Thank you.”

Without wasting time, Marco gestured toward the house. “This way,” he said. “We’ve kept everything just as it was.”

They stepped inside the villa—its marble floors cold and polished, the air faintly scented with dried roses and something darker, older. Marco led them down the hallway, past ornate paintings and locked doors, until they reached the master bedroom.

He paused at the threshold. “This is where we found her.”

James exchanged a glance with Alice, then pushed the door open.

The bedroom was dimly lit by the morning sun filtering through lace curtains. The air inside was still and heavy, as though the room itself hadn’t breathed since the murder. A faint metallic scent of dried blood lingered in the corners.

Vittoria’s bed was already made, the sheets neatly tucked and the pillows arranged with care—likely the work of the housekeepers after the body had been removed. Near the telephone on the nightstand, however, the coiled cord lay snapped and frayed—its end darkened where it had been used to strangle her. The patch of carpet near the foot of the bed told a different story: a faint, lingering stain from the wound on her abdomen, cleaned but not completely erased.

Alice stepped lightly, surveying the room with sharp eyes. “Nothing seems out of place,” she murmured. “No signs of forced entry. No valuables touched.”