Serena:
They called it neutral ground, but nothing about the Moretti estate was neutral.
Not the limestone lions guarding the wrought-iron gates. Not the manicured roses hiding sniper nests. Not the long table set under chandeliers dripping crystal like icicles over a feast no one came to eat.
This wasn't a dinner.
It was a firing squad with linen napkins.
And I'd RSVP'd with hellfire in my smile.
Luca drove. Matteo rode shotgun, cracking his knuckles like a prayer. Nico sat beside me in the backseat, cleaning his gold-plated piece with the same care most men reserved for confessions.
We pulled up slowly.
Respectful.
Let them think we were still playing by old rules.
As the doors opened, the air changed—sour with betrayal, sharp with secrets. The Valtieri guards nodded us through
