The poppy fields of Tuscany glowed crimson under a rising sun. The illusion of peace.

  Luca stood amid the wildflowers, reading the list of remaining regional candidates. Three were gone now—one arrested, one discredited, one missing. The final culling would happen soon.

  Ten would be presented. Five chosen.

  He rehearsed his story. An honest farmer who survived harsh winters, tragic losses, and bore no national pride—just a quiet resilience. The type politicians adored showcasing. The truth, wrapped in enough modesty to be disarming.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  As the selection panel arrived—politicians, sponsors, and military strategists—Luca met them in his vineyard. He wore sun-bleached linen, sleeves rolled, hands dirty from pruning vines. Optics mattered.

  When asked about loyalty, he said, “To Italy, yes. But only the Italy that still values people like us.”

  They nodded.

  When asked what he feared, he smiled. “Boredom.”

  By sunset, the final names were called.

  Luca Bellandi.

  Sofia Romano—his only rival who suspected him.

  Three others he barely knew.

  As champagne bottles popped, Luca watched Sofia. She raised her glass without smiling.

  He didn’t care if she knew. Let her watch him lie. Let her see the monster and still think she could stop it.