The city outside was waking, but inside the safe-house, silence pressed down like a weight. Even though Lorenzo's men had scrubbed and cleaned, the wreckage of last night still clung to the air. The faint smell of gunpowder lingered, stubborn and impossible to ignore, as if reminding Aria that blood had been spilled here.
She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the masked man's pistol pressed to her ribs, felt his blood soaking hot and sticky across her skin when he fell. The memory looped endlessly, dragging her awake before her body could rest.
When the door creaked open, she startled. Lorenzo stepped in, carrying two steaming mugs. Without a word, he set one in front of her and leaned casually against the wall with his own.
"Coffee," he said flatly. "Drink. You'll need it."
Her throat was raw, her voice breaking as she whispered, "Need it for what?"
