The war room in her father’s estate smelled like dust and forgotten ambition.
Alina stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, Lorenzo’s shirt draped over her like a trophy of sin. Her body ached in all the right places, but her mind was a storm of fire and knives.
Blueprints sprawled across the walls. Project Lux. Confidential files. Names crossed out in red ink.
One name wasn’t.
Arielle Vale.
Beside it, a date. Tomorrow. And the coordinates of a remote estate in Ravello.
“She’s hosting something,” Alina murmured, fingers dragging across the map. “A gala. No doubt to clean her face after everything exploded.”
“She’s arrogant,” Lorenzo said, lighting a cigar from behind her. “And desperate. That’s a lethal combination.”
Alina smirked. “Good. I’m in the mood for blood.”
He came up be
