ARIA

Two days after my family’s arrest, the air in Dante’s home office still carries the faint metallic tang of stress and the darker, warmer undertone of his cologne, sandalwood, leather, smoke. I’m standing near the window when Viktor strides in.

“We have a problem,” he says, with a clipped voice.

Dante’s head snaps up from his laptop, the screen’s blue glow catching the sharp line of his jaw. “Torres?”

“Torees contacted Emma at the psychiatric ...