Rain lashed the windows like a curse, wild and unrelenting as the city of Rome slept restlessly beneath a sky split by thunder. But inside the De Luca estate, sleep was a foreign language.
Alessia stood by the window of the master bedroom, her arms folded tightly over her chest, her silk robe clinging to her like second skin. Her eyes, once soft and curious, now burned with silent fury. She had not spoken to Lorenzo in three days. Not after the blood. Not after the betrayal. Not after seeing her brother’s crest branded in wax on the letter that had fallen from Lorenzo’s desk drawer.
He had lied to her. Again.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
“I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” she said without turning.
Lorenzo’s voice came low and hoarse. “And I told you I’d come when I was
