The sun light streamed through my high windows like a censure, unwanted and golden. I hadn't slept. Not precisely. My brain had stayed caught in the same web all night long—Vincenzo's insinuating menace, Isadora's almost imperceptible caution, and the treacherous, subtle way my breath had hitched to behold him sleeping in the library.
I wasn't meant to care about him. Not confusion, not sympathy, not curiosity. But something had shifted. The edges of hatred were dulling, softened by proximity, by the mask he wore sometimes—the one that nearly seemed human.
I shrugged my shoulders, shoving the thought away.
I had a job.
I buckled the knife under my leg. Just in case. Vito had taught me better than to go into a house like this unarmed. And today, I was going to find out if Isadora's warn
