Nobody slept.
Not Dante.
Not Camille.
Not Chanel.
Not even Victor, who claimed he was "emotionally invested against his will."
The photographs changed everything.
This was no longer about old secrets.
No longer about a woman who might be alive.
Someone was actively watching them.
Watching all of them.
And that meant one thing.
The meeting at midnight wasn't a request.
It was a summons.
By eleven thirty, the atmosphere inside the Moretti estate had become tense enough to cut with a knife.
Dante stood inside his study adjusting the cuff of his black shirt.
Calm.
Collected.
Deadly.
The kind of calm that usually made intelligent people nervous.
Camille sat across from him.
Watching.
Thinking.
Trying very hard not to think about the fact that someone had photographed them from outside her balcony.
The violation still made her skin crawl.
"I still think this is a bad idea."
Dante looked up.
"It is."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't supposed to be."
