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ella
ressure. Through the tinted glass, the Moretti estate loomed against the gray Chicago sky-a gothic fortress o
ting wind, smoothing the skirt of my dress. My grandfather, Don Gilberto Falcone, had
ion. Standing in the center, flanked by two nervous maids, was a woman who could only be Erica
were a stray dog that had wandered onto her pr
I corrected smooth
"Clean her. I won't have the filth of that ci
l disinfectant like a weapon. Before I could process the absurdity, a
my face to remain a mask of ice. When the maid reach
a grip honed by years of self-defense training. The bo
e of them." I released the maid, who stumbled back, terrified. "But I suppose there are
k. I didn't give her the chance to recover. I brushed past her, my heel
gilded furniture that looked too expensive to touch. Sitting on a velvet settee
etti. Vincen
ook the train?" She let out a tinkling, cruel laugh. "I thought the Falcones were struggling, bu
me with pity,
ad chartered an entire private Pullman railcar, complete with a personal chef and a velvet-lined stateroom. It w
t explain thems
ng furniture. "I prefer to see the country I'm about
ion. I walked toward the grand staircase, needing
er footsteps silent on the plush runner. Her face was composed
ncerity. "We got off on the wrong foot. Let me show you t
But I was tired, and th
ings of violent hunts-hounds tearing into stags. At the very end of the hall stood a heavy, dar
hispered, pointing. "Go o
the handle of my su
pen. It swung inward sile
reezing, smelling of expensive whiskey, gun oil, and raw, masculine power. I
click of the door closing, s
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