The safehouse was a stark contrast to Elena’s apartment. The walls were bare, painted a cold, industrial gray, and the only sound was the hum of the air conditioning. The single bed in the corner looked uninviting, its thin mattress and scratchy blankets doing little to ease her nerves.
Luca stood by the door, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice, low and clipped, bounced off the sterile walls.
“I want every man on this,” he growled. “Find out who sent them. And make it clear—anyone who comes after her answers to me.”
Elena sat on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped around herself. The adrenaline from the attack had faded, leaving her drained and shaky. She could still feel the scarred man’s grip on her wrist, the cold malice in his eyes.
Luca ended the call and turned to her, his
