Marco leaned his shoulder against the doorframe like he owned the place. His shirt clung to him, soaked from the storm, collar torn, a smear of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. His smile was all teeth sharp, easy, too familiar.

“Don’t shoot,” he said lazily, eyes flicking between Alessio’s raised gun and Noa’s wide stare. “I just got here.”

Alessio didn’t lower the weapon. His finger hovered near the trigger, jaw tight, body taut despite the fever dragging through his ...