Serena:
The night tasted like blood and gunmetal. And I liked it that way.
We stood at the edge of the industrial district—rusting steel skeletons, shuttered warehouses, and the faint hum of neon buzzing like a dying insect overhead. It was the kind of place built to keep secrets. Or bury them.
The Morettis had chosen their nest well.
But they hadn’t planned for me.
“Third floor,” Luca murmured, eyes trained on the blueprint in his hand. “Northwest corner. That’s where they’re keeping whatever’s linked to Project Lazarus. Surveillance has been static for three hours—no movement.”
“They’re either sleeping,” Nico added, slinging a silenced pistol under his arm, “or waiting for us.”
Matteo glanced at me. “What do you think, dolce vendetta?”
I cracked my knuckles. “I think they’ll wish
