The Amalfi sun was a cruel, brilliant contrast to the crimson shadows of the villa. It hit the white stone of the terrace with a blinding intensity, reflecting off the turquoise Tyrrhenian Sea until the world felt like a bleached photograph. I stood at the wrought-iron railing, my fingers white-knuckled against the metal, looking down at the man on the private dock.
He stood there in a crisp, white linen suit, looking as if he had stepped out of a high-end travel magazine rather than a grave in Cabo or a silver mine in the Andes. In his hand, a silver Sucre glinted—a twin to the one currently burning a hole in Roman’s pocket.
"Gia," the man called out again, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves with a terrifying, melodic familiarity. "Don't look at the monster beside you. Look
