(Dante's POV)
By the time I reached Florence, my men had closed every route out.
Flights were grounded, train stations watched, and checkpoints blocked the roads. My cars looked obscene in the narrow old streets, but nobody stopped us.
On the flight, I rehearsed questions about the son she had hidden and the lie I had lived for three years. By the time we landed, every question sounded like an order.
Michael gave me the studio address. I read it twice, sure she would disappear before I reached the door.
My men cleared the piazza around her studio. I stood at the heavy oak door with turpentine in the air and checked the address once more.
I did not knock.
My boot split the lock. The door hit the inside wall hard enough to shake dust from the frame.
Aria stood on the other side.
She
