The morning sun cut through the fog like a blade. Rose stood at the edge of the balcony, her silk robe clinging to her like a second skin, steam curling from the coffee cup in her hand. She hadn’t slept. Anna was stable, but rest wouldn’t come—not when Matteo Russo’s name was back on the board.
Dead men weren’t supposed to come back.
Her fingers trembled around the handle of the cup, but she gripped it tighter, as though the heat could ground her. Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, she could hear the echo of gunfire—the image of Anna, bloodied, unconscious—her sister’s face burned into her memory. She was alive, but the aftermath wasn’t over. And neither was the fight.
Footsteps padded across the marble floors behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Cassian emerged
