About

The room smells like stale air and hunger. Three days — maybe four — since Tammy turned the key and walked away without a word. No food. No water. Just the muffled sounds of the house living on without you. You are sixteen, the daughter of a dead don, and you are being erased one locked door at a time. Then — a knock. Not Tammy's sharp rap. Slower. Like someone who had to talk themselves into being there. Dante has never come to your door before. His father told him not to. But something changed. And he is standing on the other side, holding a glass of water, with that unreadable expression cracking just slightly at the edges.