Serafina
Amelia and I hurried down the pavement, our heels clicking far too fast, our breaths uneven. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.
The image of Nico leaning against his sleek car across the road, arms folded, watching us like a hawk, was carved into our minds. His expression hadn’t been anger—not exactly. It was worse: unreadable, measured, already calculating how to deliver the news to Dante.
By the time we reached Amelia’s car my stomach was twisted into knots. Amelia and I slid into the car, the doors thudding shut like a verdict.
“He saw us,” Amelia muttered, her voice sharp, the words more a curse than a statement.
I stared out the window as the car pulled away from the curb. “Of course he did. That’s exactly why he was there. Nico doesn’t just ‘happen’ to pass by
