The air in the basement of the villa was different from the luxury above. It was cold, damp, and smelled of old stone and stale copper. This was the foundation of the Costa empire—not the marble and silk, but the blood and the silence.
Luciano’s hand was a tight iron cuff around my wrist as he led me down the stone stairs. He hadn't changed his charcoal suit, but he had rolled up his sleeves, exposing the powerful, tattooed forearms that I had felt against my skin only an hour ago. His face was a mask of cold granite. The lover from the desk was gone; the executioner had returned.
"You don't have to be here, Siena," he said, his voice dropping to a low vibration that echoed off the damp walls. He stopped at the heavy steel door at the end of the hall and turned to face me. "Once we walk
