Chapter 49 Drunk And Alone

• Santino's apartment felt like a mausoleum. Empty whiskey bottles lined the kitchen counter like amber tombstones. The fireplace was cold, filled with ash from Mia's letters and the remnants of his naive trust.
• He sat at his mahogany desk with a fountain pen and cream-colored paper. Old school communication. No phones, no computers, nothing digital that Mia could hack or intercept or twist into another weapon against him.
• Dear Maria, he wrote, then stopped.