The warehouse door groaned open, and Veronica turned her head. Graziella stepped into the office wearing black. Her face was pale beneath her makeup, her eyes red but dry now.
The two women stared at each other—the mother of the dead and the wife of the man who had killed her.
Graziella looked her up and down.
"Hey, Mrs Vitale…" Veronica drawled, leaning back. Her wrist burned, her body ached. Still, if she had to die, she would at least be unbearable first. "With your presence here, I guess it's safe to say we are in Italy. How convenient."
The tiniest scrap of information was still information. One more thing she could hold onto while these lunatics held her.
Graziella turned to her son in disgust. "I don't see her tongue cut out."
Veronica lifted her brows. Well. Straight to the point. No tea, no greetings. The Vitale women clearly did not believe in wasting time when they could leap directly into medieval solutions.
David exhaled. "No need for that. It's Luca we want."
