The phone buzzed on the nightstand, its vibration cutting through the silence of the dimly lit room. I glanced at the clock—3:14 AM. My mind was already on edge, sleep a distant memory these days, but something about the insistent hum of the phone sent a jolt of unease down my spine.
I picked it up without hesitation, already knowing who it would be.
“Yeah?” My voice was gruff, the weight of exhaustion hanging on every syllable.
“Nico, it’s Vito,” came the reply, his tone sharper than usual. “There’s been an incident.”
I sat up immediately, my muscles tensing. “What kind of incident?”
Vito paused, and I could hear him breathing, as if searching for the right way to say what came next. “It’s about Grace. She and Marshall were ambushed. Someone shot at them.”
The words hit me like a
