𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑲 𝑪𝑨𝑹 𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍'𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕. The door opened, and I stepped out slowly, my boots crunching against the gravel. Cold air swept through my coat, tugging at the heavy fabric as it billowed slightly behind me.
My men flanked me instantly—shadows moving in sync. The sling beneath my coat was hidden well, though the faint stiffness in my left side betrayed the pain I still carried. The only visible reminder of the attack was the bruising on my lower lip—a dark smear of defiance against otherwise composed features.
Above me, lit by garish white floodlights, a massive billboard loomed over the parking structure. My gaze flicked upward.
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Giovanni, by Valentino.
My son's name.
Not printed.
Etched.
Carved into steel, trademarked in blood and capital, framed in marble serif letters that gleamed against a curtain of obsidian and liquid silver. It wasn't a billboard.
It was a monument.
A declaration.
Lee let out a low whistle beside me, his breath fogging in the cold. "Damn," he muttered, lips twitching into a grin. "You move fast."
