ADRIAN
The city lights blurred past the windshield as we drove, each one a reminder that I was running out of time. Out of patience. Out of excuses. My men had tracked Bianca’s fake name to a boutique hotel perched on a cliff, the kind of place that catered to tourists who wanted to feel wealthy for a night.
Bianca wasn’t wealthy.
She was reckless.
And she was mine to protect.
Beside me, Isabella sat rigid, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window. She hadn’t spoken since we left the villa. The silence between us was a living thing — sharp, cold, punishing.
I deserved it.
But I didn’t have the luxury of fixing it. Not right now.
We pulled into the underground parking. My men were already waiting, tense and alert.
“Top floor,” Matteo said. “Rooftop bar. They’re sitting near the edge
