He was already at the penthouse when she arrived.
She had not expected that. She had expected to find Dante alone — processing whatever Felix had told him, working through it the way he worked through everything, systematically and without visible emotion.
Instead she walked in and found them both.
Dante standing near the window.
And Enzo Ferrara sitting in the chair across the room.
She stopped in the doorway.
Enzo looked at her.
He was exactly what she had imagined from Dante's description — silver haired, suits that had been expensive twenty years ago and were still worn with quiet dignity, hands that rested on his knees with the careful stillness of someone managing something that trembled underneath.
His eyes were old. Not in years only. In weight.
He looked at her face.
And
