The safe house smelled like old paper and wood polish. Dust floated through the rays of sunlight cutting in from the blinds. Everything was too still.
Santino locked the door behind him, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. His hand was still shaking when he set the glass down.
He had seen the photo. His father. Alive. Standing outside a café in Buenos Aires.
And now, after all the lies, Mia wanted to talk.
A key turned in the lock. Santino turned, reaching for the pistol taped under the edge of the table. He didn't draw it. Yet.
The door opened and she stepped inside like she owned the place.
Mia wore a black dress. Her hair was loose, and she had calm eyes that didn't quite meet his.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"I have keys to all the safe houses,"
