The warehouse air was thick with the stench of oil and dust, but all Raven could smell was gunpowder. The black steel of the pistol gleamed under the flickering overhead light, pointed straight at Jaxon’s chest.

Her father’s enforcer, Marco, stepped forward with deliberate calm, his leather gloves creaking as he adjusted his grip on the weapon. “You know why I’m here, ragazza. Your father wants you home. Now.”

“Home?” Her voice cracked, disbelief burning through her. “After ...