Mirabella
The file sat between us on the massive oak table in the study, its contents spilling out like a wound we couldn't ignore.
Alex leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his face carved from stone. His hair was still damp from the shower, strands clinging to his forehead, but his dark eyes never left the papers. Watching. Calculating.
“We knew Damon wasn’t working alone,”
he said finally. His voice was rough, low, the kind of voice meant for giving orders and tearing down empires.
“But Alessandro Marino?”
I flipped another photo onto the table, the image of Marino grainy but unmistakable. The sharp nose. The cruel mouth. A man who had once tried to dismantle my family piece by bloody piece.
“He was supposed to be dead,”
I said flatly. My fingers drummed the table, nails cli
