Dante
The change in the room came before the doors opened.
A hush swept across the marble, the sound of conversations faltering, bodies tilting as one. Whispers ran like smoke under chandeliers. Then the doors swung wide, and Domenico Costa appeared at the top of the stairs as if he’d bought the building outright.
Slate suit. Black shirt. That ridiculous onyx pinky ring he liked to flash as though it meant something. His grin was spread too wide, smug and rehearsed.
And on his arm—Eva.
She wore red silk, cut to catch every eye, clinging like it had been painted on. The neckline plunged, the slit reached her thigh, and she tilted her head toward the cameras, throat bared for show. She smiled like she believed she mattered. Then her eyes sought me across the distance.
I didn’t bl
