The next morning hits like a brick to the skull.
My phone is dead, and my head is pounding so hard I feel it behind my eyes.
Yet somehow, despite the chaos of last night, I slept better than I have in months. I briefly consider blaming the adrenaline crash, but I know that isn't true.
I know I'm in deep, deep shit.
Whatever.
After I put his bloodied shirt back over his shoulders and shove him out the door, I get ready for the day. I shower, dress in black (mourning my will to live), and drive to the Marchesi estate expecting a warzone.
…It isn't.
It's weirdly quiet—alarmingly quiet.
The kind of quiet where you assume someone died or someone just got diagnosed with a terminal illness—which, if that's the case, I can only hope it's Alessandro.
I step into the main hall and take in the scene before me, my brows furrowing while I try to understand what could have happened.
Alessandro must be in his office with the door shut—a rare occurrence before noon.
