"Isa!"

The sound of his voice was a physical blow, ripping through the haze of shock and the ringing of the alarm. It wasn't the cold, smooth voice of the Don I usually knew; it was raw, frantic, and edged with a terrifying, primal fear.

I hadn't moved. I stood there, rooted in the center of the room, the dagger still clutched in my hand, my knuckles white. Blood, his men's blood, was smeared across the mother-of-pearl handle and running down my wrist. I couldn't look at the three crumpled ...