The photographs lay scattered across the mahogany desk like accusations. Each one a frozen moment, a stolen second of her life that she'd never know had been captured.
I adjusted the lens of my camera, zooming in on the most recent addition to my collection. Serafina De Luca—or Moretti now, I supposed—standing in the doorway of that pathetic bakery in Little Italy. The afternoon sun had caught her profile just right, illuminating the sharp line of her jaw and the way her dark hair fell over one shoulder. Beautiful, in that dangerous way that made men stupid.
"She went back to the old neighborhood again," I murmured, more to myself than to my companion. My fingers traced the edge of the photograph, careful not to smudge the still-wet print. "Third time this week."
Behind me, I heard the
