Dante
Dom Costa’s smirk rode with me all the way to the curb.
Serafina sat beside me, jacket pulled tight over my shirt, her knee bouncing. Nico drove, steady as stone, but his eyes tracked the mirrors. A grey Alfa kept too close for three lights.
“Grey Alfa, two back,” Nico murmured.
“I see it.”
Serafina’s reflection caught in the glass. “Is this normal now?” “It is today.”
She let out a sharp breath but said nothing. The Alfa edged closer.
“Box them,” I told Nico.
Our second car eased up, horns blared, and the Alfa veered off. Amateur. A feeler, not Costa.
Serafina’s voice was dry. “Are you going to tell me what I should actually be afraid of, or do I just wait until someone shoots at me?”
“You won’t be anywhere near bullets.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I met her
