Outside, the black Mercedes was parked right where Lyla had noticed it earlier when she sat down. Compared to the sleek silver Aston Martin, this car seemed far more discreet—so low-key that when she first saw it last night, she never would have connected it to the flamboyant, arrogant Carlo.
“That car?” Carlo’s eyes remained fixed on the spinning washing machine drum as he shrugged casually. “It burned.”
“You’re talking nonsense again!” Lyla muttered under her breath, flipping the pages of her book with exaggerated force.
Carlo didn’t respond. His eyes were still on the rotating drum, but the mechanical hum of the machine seemed to morph in his mind into the crackling sound of flames and the thunderous roar of an explosion.
In his memory, the scene from that night replayed vividly. Wh
