Chapter 8 The Ghost We Don't Bury

• Luca's office was a throne of power: wood wainscoting so dark it seemed almost black, floor-to-ceiling windows out over the city he controlled like a god, guns in line disguised as sculpture.
• He leaned back against his desk, rolled up his sleeves, and gritted his teeth. His head still burned with visions of Isabella — battered, bruised, twisted in his penthouse like something shattered. He hadn't slept. Not yet.
• And then the knock.