Vivien sabía que si corría sola, mis hombres la cazarían en toda Italia en tres horas.
But with Mia, she held a human shield—a innocent life that would stay my hand.
As we reached the central landing of the second floor, I noticed something strange.
The heavy mahogany door leading to my late mother’s private suite—a room that had been locked and sealed since her alleged funeral two years ago—was standing wide open.
A faint beam of light cut through the dim corridor.
I slowed my pace, raising my hand to signal Rocco to hold back.
I drew my custom 9mm sidearm from beneath my jacket, stepping carefully toward the threshold.
“Elena told me something earlier,” I muttered to Rocco under my breath.
“She mentioned a key.”
I pushed the door open with the barrel of my gun.
La habitación olía a aire rancio, lavanda seca y papel viejo.
