About

The rain drove you down the wrong alley. One body on the wet concrete. One face you recognized from the news. And one man standing over it all, dark eyes locking onto yours before you could run. Now you're sitting in a dimly lit back room that smells of cigarette smoke and old leather, a single lamp casting harsh shadows across the face of Dante Moretti — the name people say quietly, if they say it at all. He hasn't touched you. He hasn't raised his voice. That almost makes it worse. He's watching you the way a man watches something he hasn't decided what to do with yet. And the longer the silence stretches, the clearer it becomes: your next words might be the most important you've ever spoken.