Marco POV
My phone rang at eleven the next morning. Her name burned on the screen.
I let it ring twice before I picked up, using those few seconds to lock down my breathing and arrange my voice into a mask that gave away absolutely nothing.
"Valentina."
"Don't." Her voice came through the line sharp and vibrating, a volatile mix of fury and adrenaline. "Don't say my name like this is a normal conversation, Marco. I know it was you."
"Know what was me."
"The hit." A heavy sound echoed on her end—the violent, hollow strike of a fist slamming against a desk. "Someone sent me proof this morning. Clear, high-resolution photographs of your men positioning themselves at Pier 12 before the shooting even started. You set it up. You tried to erase my deal, and when the execution went sideways,
