The teak chair scraped hard on the floor as Dante Moretti dragged it closer to the small, dusty glass table.
The rooftop of his hidden villa in Santiago offered enough serenity, enough to clear his mind while he puffed hard on his Cigar.
Hidden, isolated, and surrounded by trees and shrubs, cracked white walls, cobwebs hung loose at some ends, he had made Elena believe he sold it off years ago.
His mind roamed, back to years ago. Him, Elena, Claret, and Marco Valenti, good fun days, the days they celebrated on yachts, the business meetings that ended up as dinners.
Then his mind snapped back, the sounds of birds chirping rudely cut in, the only animated thing around the house.
The rooftop terrace, wide enough to hold a mini party, Dante sat before the calm pool, legs stretched out, ba
