Alessia didn't move.
The blood in her veins was no longer ice water, but molten lead, heavy and suffocating.
Her mind, however, was suddenly, frighteningly clear.
She had walked into a trap, not of adultery, but of grand-scale deception.
The possessiveness, the tests, the distance—it had all been a carefully orchestrated ballet to keep her focused on their marital discord while a deeper, more lethal game was being played.
"Angel is a name," Luca repeated, his voice now a low, menacing current, "and they just received the final order to take care of all loose ends."
"Loose ends?" Alessia's voice was a ragged whisper, a final shred of disbelief catching in her throat. "The baby is a loose end?"
