Serafina
By the time I got to Amelia’s apartment the next morning, the photo still burned in my pocket like a live coal.
I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. All I’d replayed was Dante’s hand on Clarissa’s hip, the two of them moving too close under glittering lights, her lips brushing his ear while I stood in the shadows with my jaw locked. And then, my finger pressing the button—snap. The proof tucked neatly into my phone, hidden from him.
Amelia opened the door in a robe, coffee mug in hand. One look at me and she knew.
“Well,” she said dryly, stepping aside. “You either murdered him, or you’ve got ammunition. Which is it?”
I brushed past her, straight to the couch, and dropped my bag like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“Ammo.”
Her eyes lit up. “Show me.”
I pulled out the phone
