I sat behind my large desk in Sicily and stared at the grainy, long-lens photograph spread across the wooden table.
In all my life, I have never felt more shocked, insulted and infuriated.
In the photo, the sun was setting over a private stretch of white sand.
A woman stood there, her jet black hair unmistakable even from a distance.
She wasn't a corpse in a ditch. She wasn't charred remains in the ruins of Raul’s estate.
My daughter, Amaya Vancouver.
She was alive.
And she was smiling at Bane Valak.
"I thought she was dead," I said quietly, my voice a jagged rasp in the quiet room. "I mourned her. I burned a goddamn empty casket for her so the papers would stop hounding me, and all this time, she’s been playing house with this bastard?"
Martin, my captain a man whose loyalty w
