Dante
The city was already moving by the time I sat down behind my desk. Phones ringing. Screens flashing. Reports piling. Noise, all of it. But none of it mattered more than the folder Matteo slid across the polished wood.
“She went straight to him,” he said, his grin sharp and careless, as though it were just another piece of gossip.
I flipped it open. Photographs—grainy but clear enough. Eva, still in last night’s red silk, heels in her hand, mascara smeared at the corners. Dom’s driver opening the door of a sedan, ushering her inside like she was still somebody. Then the next frame: Dom at the entrance of his penthouse, arms wide, grin smug, Eva stepping into his shadow like she belonged there.
Predictable. Pathetic.
“Didn’t waste any time, did she?” Matteo leaned back, boots
