Adriana didn’t sleep that night.
She sat curled up on the couch, clutching a cup of tea she had long since forgotten to drink, her mind spinning in relentless circles. The security footage from Emma’s shop had burned itself into her memory—the tall, broad-shouldered man in the dark coat, his face obscured just enough to avoid a clear identification. He hadn’t touched anything unnecessary. Hadn’t lingered.
He had been deliberate.
Calculated.
She had learned enough from being around Marco to recognize the signs. This wasn’t an ordinary man. He was trained.
Marco stood by the window, his phone pressed to his ear, murmuring in clipped, low tones. His broad shoulders were tense, his fingers flexing at his side in agitation. Adriana could tell he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted.
When
