The gunshot still echoed in my ears long after Vincenzo’s body hit the floor.
The smoke, the smell of metal and burnt oil—it all clung to my skin like a curse. My chest was heavy as I stared at Raphael, who stood tall and calm, his pistol still warm in his hand. A wide smile plastered on his face.
“You’re welcome,” he had said.
But welcome wasn’t what I felt. No. What I felt was suspicion.
Lucky pressed a hand against my back, steadying me. His eyes locked on Raphael like a wolf watching another predator. “What’s your angle this time?” Lucky asked coldly.
Raphael only smirked, stepping closer. “My angle is survival, Caro amico. And Abigail’s survival is tied to mine.”
I stared at Vincenzo’s body. The blood pooled too easily, too perfectly. His eyes—half-lidded, lifeless. Yet somethin
