I walked back to the Falcone estate on my own.
At four in the morning, I stood at the west gate and pressed the bell.
The security camera turned toward me.
I lifted my face and let it see me clearly.
I wasn’t crying.
I didn’t look like some desperate girl who had run and failed.
I simply stood there, like a lost child who had finally decided to come home.
The iron gates opened.
Falcone came out himself.
He wore a robe, his hair slightly disheveled, yet there was no anger on his face.
Only the satisfied calm of a cat that had finished playing with a mouse.
“Sera.”
He opened his arms.
“I knew you would come back.”
I stepped into his embrace.
The familiar scent of cigar smoke and agarwood surrounded me.
For twelve years, that smell had meant safety.
Now it meant death.
“I’m
