Lydia Crane didn’t scream.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t flinch.
She sat calmly in the dim interrogation room beneath Marco Romano’s estate, legs crossed, lipstick still intact despite the blood crusted along her jaw. The only sign of discomfort was the slight tremor in her manicured fingers—barely perceptible unless you were looking for it.
Marco was.
He stood behind the one-way glass, watching her like a hawk stalking prey. Arms folded. Jaw locked. His wound had been stitched up hastily, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins left no room for pain.
“You sure you want to go in there?” Marcus asked beside him. “She might be more useful alive.”
“She will be,” Marco muttered. “After she talks.”
He stepped inside the room.
The heavy door creaked as it shut behind him. Lydia looked up, her
