Aria
The house I'd grown up in looked like a crime scene. Furniture tipped over, drawers yanked out and emptied onto the floor, picture frames smashed against the walls. I stepped carefully around a broken lamp, my heart pounding against my ribs.
"Jesus," I muttered, taking in the destruction.
Was this Cassian's doing? Or Riccardo's men? Did it even matter anymore?
I picked my way through the chaos of the living room toward my bedroom, stepping over scattered books and clothes. My fingers trembled as I pushed open my bedroom door, dreading what I might find inside.
It wasn't much better. My mattress had been slashed open, stuffing spilling out like guts. My closet door hung off its hinges, and someone had dumped all my clothes in a heap on the floor.
But I wasn't here to cry over my
