We flew back to Como in the gray hours before dawn, the jet cutting through clouds thick with unshed rain. I sat apart from the others, my forehead pressed against the cold window, watching the Alps slide past beneath us. Ingrid Bauer's words echoed in my head like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.
She offered me the same deal, once. Before Webb killed her.
Mira had approached Ingrid six months before she died. She'd found the brother, the family, the leverage. She'd stood in that same cold apartment and offered the same cold bargain. And Ingrid had refused—and then she'd picked up the phone and sealed my sister's fate.
I should have killed her. The thought circled my mind like a wolf, patient and hungry. I should have pulled the trigger and ended the woman who'd ended my sister. But I
