Serafina
By the time morning crept through Amelia’s town house windows, my head was pounding with too many thoughts and too little sleep. The place bore the scars of last night—wine glasses still on the counter, a half-eaten pizza box on the kitchen island, Amelia’s laptop left glowing faintly on the coffee table. The town house smelled of stale red wine, coffee, and a trace of smoke from the club still clinging to my hair.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again. Dante Romano’s mouth on Eva’s. His hand sliding up her thigh like it belonged there. The photos Amelia had snapped weren’t just images—they were loaded bullets waiting for the right gun. And I hadn’t decided yet when—or how—to pull the trigger.
Amelia was far less shaken. She sat curled on the couch in an oversized hood
