Emilia sat alone in her penthouse, a single glass of untouched scotch sweating in her palm. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights blinked like dying stars- so far removed from the blood and betrayal that brewed in its gutters.
The conversation with Cesare still itched in her veins like poison she hadn’t swallowed but inhaled.
“I want to know if you still bleed when someone touches your past,” Rafael had said.
The bastard knew exactly what he was doing- stirring things she buried, dragging her history out of its tomb like a goddamn resurrection.
She downed the scotch.
Cesare wanted to find Dario’s killer, not because he gave a damn about justice- but because weakness in the Moretti name meant whispers. Whispers meant vulnerability. And vulnerability meant someone like E
