Serafina
I woke to the sound of breaking glass.
For a moment—just one suspended breath—I think I'm dreaming. That I'm back in the De Luca estate, sixteen years old and running through hallways slick with blood. But then my hand finds the Glock under my pillow, and the weight of it grounds me. I'm not that terrified girl anymore.
I'm Serafina Moretti now. And someone just made a fatal mistake.
I slip out of bed silently, my feet finding the cool marble floor. The penthouse is dark except for the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I'm wearing silk pajama shorts and a tank top—not exactly tactical gear—but Madame Chen once told me that the best weapon is the one your enemy doesn't see coming. Right now, that's me.
Another sound. Closer. The soft tread of boots try
