The veil haunted me long after the guard left the room. That delicate scrap of white silk sat like a ghost on Angelo’s desk, torn, blood-stained, trembling in the dim light of the study lamp.
Maria.
My throat locked around the name.
Angelo leaned back in his chair, calm, almost bored, like a man weighing stock prices instead of a woman’s life. He tapped his cigarette against a crystal ashtray, the ember flaring.
“She was here,” I whispered, voice raw. “This is hers. Angelo, she was here.”
I lifted my eyes to him, desperate. “If she’s out there, she’s scared, she’s alone - don’t you understand?”
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease touching his brow. For half a second, it almost looked like sympathy. But no - he didn’t know how to give that. Not really.
“She ran,” he said
