The heavy oak door slammed shut behind Armani with a finality that echoed through the stone walls of the old estate. The lock clicked—twice, the deadbolt and then the chain—and Riley was alone in the room that had once been her prison, now dressed up like a gilded cage. Velvet drapes the color of dried blood. A four-poster bed that looked too large for one person. A single lamp burning low on the nightstand, throwing long shadows across the Persian rug.
She stood in the center of the floor, still wearing the torn coffee-shop apron over her jeans, arms wrapped tight around her middle as if she could hold herself together that way. Her breathing came shallow and fast. She could still smell gunpowder on her skin, could still hear the wet scream of the woman Armani had shot in the leg.
The d
