Lorenzo sat in the war room, shirtless, scarred, eyes shadowed by the storm unraveling beneath his skin.
Celine was alive.
And Alina—his Alina—was now standing between him and the very thing he’d buried.
He didn’t know if he wanted to fall to his knees or burn the whole world just to be hers again.
“Whiskey?” Alina’s voice came from the doorway.
He turned, watching her cross the room like fire in a silk robe.
She poured two glasses and handed him one. “You’re either going to make peace with the past, or the past will kill you.”
“You think I’m afraid of a daughter I never held?”
“No,” she said slowly, “but you should be terrified of the woman she’s become.”
Lorenzo studied her.
“And you?”
She took a sip, eyes not leaving his. “You already know what I’m capable of.”
That night, C
