Seraphine sat in the dimly lit room, her fingers trembling as she flipped through the photographs she'd found buried in a locked drawer in Salvatorе Falconе's office. The images were a silent scream of heartbreak—her lover, lifeless, his once brilliant eyes now dulled by death's cruel hand.
She let out a shaky laugh, one laced with disbelief and madness.
"Really? This is how I find out? No villainous monologue? No dramatic showdown? Just Polaroids and cheap cologne residue?"
From the shadows, an unexpected voice drawled, "Falcone's not big on theatrics. He's more… how do I put it? Efficiently cruel."
Seraphine spun around, dagger in hand, her eyes locking onto a wiry figure slouched against the doorway. It was Mateo, a former hitman for Falconе who'd switched sides after Falconе had double-crossed him. He was munching on an apple, utterly unbothered by the blade aimed at his throat.
"I didn't know grief came with snack breaks," she snapped.
