Vincenzo Dante Volkov
“You have thirty minutes, Vince,” Little Mouse said, sitting stiffly on the couch. It felt like an eternity since I’d last seen her, and every part of me ached to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her how much I missed her. But the way she looked at me—with hatred burning in her eyes—stopped me cold.
“First, I’m sorry for everything,” I began, my voice quiet but firm. “And my family had nothing to do with your parents’ deaths.”
She rolled her eyes, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “I’m not here to hear your excuses, okay? And trust me, I will get my revenge. For my parents. Every one of you—Washington, Volkov—you’ll all pay.”
“Listen to me!” I snapped, my frustration breaking through. “I don’t know how long you’ve been digging through my files, how long you’ve c
