I straightened. "Calliari doesn't cross that line without permission. He wouldn't dare. Not unless –"
Alessandro raised one skeletal hand. "Don't start a war over smoke."
My jaw flexed.
Smoke?
A man breached our perimeter, mapped half our surveillance blind spots, and died screaming in a fire I set myself. That wasn't smoke. That was a signal flare lit in our yard.
Marcello was frozen beside the desk before adjusting his gloves like they'd begun to itch. His lips twitched, and his expression was unreadable. He was trying not to be involved, but he already was.
"You're late, Andrés," Alessandro said without glancing up even though we both knew he hadn't touched the damn photos.
I hadn't noticed Andrés walk in over the pulse in my ears and the heat rising in my throat.
