That morning, there was tension in the big house. It was not due to guns being discharged or something exploding outside, but because of the heavy stillness that hung in the hallways. Something was amiss, and Isla could feel it even before she spotted Dante. His men moved with stiff, rapid motions, not even looking at her. A dark, menacing energy hung in the air, as if the sky had frozen.
She found Dante outside in the backyard, standing like a statue made of black stone. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, and his face showed white, furious intensity. A man knelt at his feet, his hands tied behind him, something in his mouth that hurt him. Blood was running from a cut on his lower lip, staining his lower face red.
She knew him. Carlo. He had been with Dante for years, one of the men who had sat at the big table, one of the men who had filled whiskey in Dante's glass, one of the men who had looked at her kindly when others looked at her as if she did not exist.
