The view from my penthouse was the kind of thing people wrote love letters about—sun dipping low over the Los Angeles skyline, gold bleeding into the ocean, the whole city stretching like it belonged to me.
It did.
Two years in LA had given me everything I wanted and nothing I needed. The Romano empire had tripled its reach, alliances had been reforged, enemies erased. My name carried more weight now than it ever had back in Italy and even New York. But the cost was silence. And the kind of silence that follows you into the night has a way of gnawing at you.
Especially when you remember what filled it before.
I adjusted the cuff of my shirt, watching the glass reflection of myself in the window. I didn't look different—same tailored suits, same cold expression—but I was harder now. Colder. Less willing to gamble with things I couldn't control.
That's when the intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Romano," my assistant's voice crackled through. "Miss Castillo is here to see you."
