The night before dawn was always the quietest, but beneath the stillness of the master suite, the air crackled with a electric, heavy tension.
Outside, the coastal rain had softened into a fine mist that clung to the tall arched windows of the West Wing. The amber glow from the marble fireplace washed over the dark velvet canopy bed, casting long, intimate shadows across the room.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, wearing a white silk dressing gown. My medical notes on Leo’s trial numbers lay forgotten on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of amber scotch. My mind wasn't on the charts. It was on the tactical maps stored downstairs in the vault and the man standing by the hearth.
Dante stood bare-chested, dark trousers low on his hips, his silver-and-black tailored shirt draped ov
