The van tore through the rain-slicked streets, tires screaming, engines roaring, the city blurring past in streaks of grey and red. Alessio’s grip on the wheel was so tight his knuckles had gone bone white, but his jaw was set, his breath controlled, his rage wrapped tight like a loaded gun ready to snap.

Noa sat beside him, clutching the cold steel of his own gun, his ribs still aching, his heart slamming like it was begging to claw its way out of his chest.

He couldn’t shake Nero’s ...