The night was cold, the street silent except for the sound of heavy boots and the low hum of the waiting car. Guns pointed at Adrian’s chest, shadows closing in.
“Time to go,” one of Marseille’s men growled. “Rome is waiting.”
Adrian didn’t move. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His heart was already bleeding with the image of his daughter, his little girl, held somewhere in Rome, crying for him.
He lifted his head, eyes blazing. “Where is she? Where is Alora?”
The leader smirked. “Alive. For now. But you already know the deal, Saint-Laurent walks into Rome, or the girl doesn’t see another sunrise.”
Adrian’s chest tightened. Every muscle in his body screamed to kill them all, to tear them apart right there, but one wrong move and his daughter’s life would be over.
Behind him
