Valeria

I sat near — too near — the man next to me, my thigh brushing his beneath the small café table as the city blurred around us. His name was Nico. One of Dante’s men. Young, good looking and reckless in the way that meant he was as useful as he was dangerous. He did a good job of acting as though he was my lover, one arm resting lazily across the back of the chair, the other, adopting a lazy familiarity, draped just the side of the edge of the table—just a tug away from the ...