The rain came down in silver sheets over Naples, slicking the cobblestones and turning the alleyways into rivers of black water.
Adriana clutched her cloak tighter as Marco ushered her toward the waiting car. A simple errand, her father had said. A private visit to a church on the outskirts, where she could light a candle for her mother’s soul. A reminder, Enzo insisted, of her duty as a Rossi woman. But even a prayer felt like a chain when Luca Bianchi insisted on accompanying her, his hand brushing her arm as though she already belonged to him.
The thought made her stomach turn.
They were halfway down the steps when the night split with the growl of an engine. A sleek black Maserati glided to a stop, blocking the Rossi car. The driver’s door swung open, and Damian Moretti stepped out.
