Valentina watched Venice pass through the tinted windows wet cobblestones, sagging awnings, gondolas slicing through canals like knives through silk. But the city had changed. She could feel it. The pulse beneath its beauty was wrong.
Matteo drove without speaking. He wasn’t chatty, Adrian had trained his men to be silent, observant, deadly. She respected that.
They arrived at a low-rise building tucked between a weathered trattoria and a closed-down jewelry store. It looked innocent enough, but Valentina felt the eyes before she saw them discreet security on the roof, the twitch of movement behind drawn curtains.
She stepped out, every cell alert.
Inside, the floor creaked.
Old-world charm, Adrian had said once. She called it fragile.
Marco Vero stood waiting, arms folded, smile oil
