Anastasia had barely driven a block from the restaurant's parking lot when her phone rang. The screen lit up with Dante.
Her stomach tightened. If he was calling this soon, he already knew what had happened.
She swiped to answer.
"Are you alright?" His voice was sharp, fast—clipped like every word was a demand. "Did they hurt you? Where are you right now? Tell me. I'm coming to get you."
"I'm fine, Dante." She exhaled, even though her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "I'm fine. But I don't think this is going to stop if we keep playing it cool. If we know Roger's behind this, we can't just… wait for his next move. We need to go after him—head-on. Otherwise, this will keep happening. Forever."
A dry, humorless chuckle slid through the line. "There's no need for you to worry, Anastasia. I don't want you getting blood on your hands."
"I almost did," she shot back. "I held a gun today. I didn't hit him—but I came close. Next time, I won't miss."
