The following morning quickly, a haze clinging to the city like smoke after battle.
The skyline stretched far and endless beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damian's penthouse, but to Isabella, it felt like a cage of glass and steel.
She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man who'd tried to kill them: the flash of steel, the thunder of the gunshot, the name that shouldn't have been there: Antonio, her father.
Now, sitting alone at the breakfast table, she stared at the untouched cup of coffee that had long gone cold.
Behind her, a soft chime from the elevator broke the silence.
Luca stepped out, his dark coat damp from rain, his expression sharp and unreadable.
"Where's Damian?" she asked immediately.
"Out," Luca said, brushing a droplet of water from his sleeve. "And before you ask, he didn't tell me where."
He dropped a sealed folder onto the table. "But I can guess what it was."
