phin
, standing in the Grand Salon of the Russo Estate in Long Island, the damp iron stench of the C
ture and a massive crystal chandelier that looked more like a weapon than a light
folder Silas had given me o
before her husband could reach it. Her manicured nails tore through the seal. I watched her face transit
the high ceilings. She hurled the papers at Giovanni's chest. "You
o catch the falling documents. He scanned the DNA results, his face devoid of any paternal warmth. There wa
t a *bastarda* (bastard). Look at the dates. Look at the name. It's
s didn't fade; it morphed into a deep, venomous suspicion. In the mafia, trust was a l
arm free. "Call Dr. Bianchi. Now. I want my own blood tes
sk of stone. Let th
willingly, feeling the sharp prick of the needle. As the doctor turned his back to label the vials, I subtly pressed my thumb against the cuff of my dark sleeve. The hi
finally returned to the Grand Salon, the sun had set, c
red, packing his bag quickly. "S
hiss. She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my co
her voice dripping with disdain. "Nothing like our Bianca. Bianca has grace. Bianca kno
udden, naked greed. He didn't see a daughter; he saw an asset. He knew I hadn't just materi
ject the authority of a *Don*, thoug
e dropping to a hushed, urgent tone.
angerous, instantly transforming the
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