Dante
The sound of jet landing always reminded me of war. Maybe it was because every time someone I hated landed on American soil, it felt like the beginning of one.
Massimo Montenegro.
I stared at the name blinking on the encrypted message on my burner phone, the letters glowing faintly under the dashboard lights as I parked my car outside a warehouse on the edge of the city.
Massimo's alive.
The name brought back memories, Massimo and I weren't that close, but we weren't enemies either. I had seen that bastard take a bullet between the eyes. No one survives that, no one should've.
But according to my contact in Europe, an ex-Interpol agent with no allegiance to anyone but himself, Massimo had been spotted in Belgium. Then in Amsterdam. Then, two days ago, stepping off a private jet in New Jersey. Now he was here. Breathing, walking. Asking about Alessia.
And no one comes back from the dead unless they're looking to burn the world down.
