"Veronica," he breathed. The MP5 submachine gun slipped from his massive hands, clattering against the shattered remains of the mahogany desk. He stepped over the mangled corpse of Antonio’s lead bodyguard without breaking eye contact.
"Don't move," I rasped. My voice sounded terrible—like dry leaves scraping against stone—but the authority behind it was absolute.
I leveled the smoking Glock directly at his chest. Right over the spot where I knew my name was carved into his flesh, raw and bleeding beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. "You think this changes anything, Coppola? You think finding out Antonio was a rat erases five years of our families slaughtering each other? We are still enemies."
Lucas didn't stop. He didn't raise his hands in surrender, nor did he reach for a back
