Things started suddenly.
It did not begin with tirades of screams, but with a small piece of paper, hidden under a stack of papers on the desk of Dante. Isla was not looking for anything. She promised herself she would never be that kind of woman who sifted through drawers, but her curiosity tugged at her like a chain. He had left the study door ajar, and as she walked by, she could pick up on the faint odor of smoke and leather. She had gone in, telling herself it was no big deal.
But the paper was just sitting there, waiting.
Her hands shook when she opened it. The handwriting was Dante's, neat and readable. Names, dates, places—deliveries and appointments. Plain business language at first, hard but mundane. Then she noticed a line scrawled in the margin, faint but legible.
Luca.
