But where my father’s face had carried a stern, noble authority, this man’s face was marred by a thin, jagged white scar running from his left ear down to his jawline—and his eyes possessed a feral, unhinged malice that no Duca patriarch had ever worn.
It was Uncle Adrian.
“Hello, Lorenzo,” he said, his voice a gravelly, resonant echo of my father’s tone.
“You have your father’s posture.
Pompous.
Arrogant.
Standing on a balcony as if you own the world.”
“You’re standing in my house, Adrian,” I said, my voice echoing off the high marble walls.
“And you have five seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put a bullet between your eyes.”
Adrian threw his head back and laughed—a dry, rasping sound that rattled in his chest.
“¿Poner una bala en mí?
With what?
That tiny sidearm?”
He gestured to the four armed men beside him.
