Rain's POV

Dawn came with the click of the penthouse lock.

Dante stepped into the bedroom carrying a greasy paper bag. The logo on the front was from a street vendor on the West Side-the same one we'd lived on during our safe house years, when we were nothing but two desperate kids with blood on our hands and a dream of surviving to see morning.

A peace offering. Calculated. Precise.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. The expensive fabric dipped under his weight. His hand rose, slow and deliberate, reaching to brush a strand of hair from my face.

That's when I smelled it.

Camilla's perfume. Heavy floral. Cloying. Woven into the very fibers of his suit, his skin, his hair.

It smelled like a lie.

My body moved before my mind could stop it. I jerked my head away so sharply that pain shot down my neck.

His hand froze in mid-air.

The silence that followed was louder than any gunshot.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. The only crack in his composure. Then he did something unexpected-he swallowed his pride and spoke.

"She's bankrupt," he said, voice tight. "And suicidal."

I stared at the ceiling.

"I can't just let her die. Not yet." He leaned closer, and the perfume invaded my lungs again. "This is the vendetta, Rain. I'm keeping her close to destroy her. Nothing more."

Nothing more.

He opened the paper bag. Pulled out a warm arancini, its fried golden shell still steaming. Brought it toward my lips with the same hand that had stroked her cat.

I took the arancini from his fingers.

He exhaled. Relief flickered in his dark eyes.

Then I turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And dropped the arancini into the stainless steel trash can beside the bed.

The soft thud echoed through the silent room.

I pulled a napkin from the nightstand. Unfolded it with precise, methodical movements. Wiped the imaginary grease from each finger. One by one.

"It's cold," I said, my voice entirely flat. "I can't eat it."

I never raised my eyes.

The smile on Dante's face didn't shatter. It cracked-like ice under too much pressure. The grinding of his molars was audible from where I sat.

He leaned in. The scent of her was suffocating.

"Don't push your luck," he whispered. A blade wrapped in velvet.

Then he stood. His footsteps hammered across the floor. The bathroom door clicked shut.

Only then did I drop the used napkin into the trash can.

It landed softly on top of his ruined peace offering.

Some things can't be rewarmed once they've gone cold.