Mila sat on the edge of her bed, still dressed from the day that never seemed to end.
The room was dark except for the lamp on the nightstand. The curtains were drawn, the door was locked, and she hadn't moved in twenty minutes.
Her hands rested on her knees, her fingers laced together. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, but she wasn't seeing it. She was seeing the fire, the warehouse collapsing inward, the smoke rising in thick columns.
But that wasn't the only thing going on in her head. Her ears echoed with the firefighters shouting orders, the sirens of the police cars as they cordoned off the area.
Ten men dead.
She'd heard Dante say it, but that didn't mean it was processing. She heard the flatness in his voice, the thin control that threatened to snap at any given moment.
But she'd also seen his jaw tighten.
Seen the way his hand had curled into a fist like he was the one in pain.
Ten men.
