The estate did not look like a place a man like Lucas DiGiallorenzo would call home. That was the first thing I thought when the car came through the gates and the house opened up in front of us, all pale stone and old ironwork and a courtyard with a fountain that had clearly been running for a hundred years without once being asked to stop.
I had expected something colder. Something built to intimidate rather than to be lived in.
"Mummy, look, there's a fountain with a lion in it." My son beamed
Andre had his face pressed to the window, one hand flat on the glass, Sombra wedged under his arm because Sombra went everywhere now, promoted from bedroom to permanent companion since the airport.
"Do you think the lion is friendly?" He asked
"I think the lion is made of stone, baby." I repl
