(MARCELLO'S POV)
The wine tastes unusually bitter on my tongue tonight.
Bitter in a way that lingers, coating the back of my throat no matter how long after I've swallowed. I let it sit there as I watch the television, as if punishing myself with it will somehow steady the fire crawling up my spine.
The whole world is in chaos.
Every channel is the same. Adrianna Jackson's confession. Speculation about the Veil and I Diavoli Rossi.
Dante paces across the living room with his phone pressed to his ear, his footsteps sharp against the marble floor. Every call pulls his shoulders tighter, his jaw clenched so hard I can hear his teeth grind when he mutters his replies.
Every few seconds, he ends a call just for another one to come through. I don't need to be told to know it's members of the Veil. Fear has a very specific sound when it travels through a phone line.
I lift the wine glass again, my eyes never leaving the TV screen.
