Dante
The smell gave her away.
Gun oil. Cordite. It clung to her hands even after she’d tried to wash it off. When Serafina walked into my office, chin lifted like she owned the place, it rolled ahead of her like a confession.
“Who put a gun in your hand?” I asked.
Her lips twitched. “I did.”
I leaned back in my chair, temper hot and sharp. “Who else?”
Silence. Then: “Adriano.”
Heat rose in my throat. Not betrayal—fury. And jealousy so clean it cut. Not of her brother himself, but of the fact it had been his voice in her ear, his hands fixing her grip, when it should have been mine.
"Call him,” I said to Nico without looking away from her.
“I’m already here,” Adriano said from the doorway. He came in with his sleeves rolled, casual like he hadn’t just crossed a line I dre
