Dante looked up from his espresso cup, his gaze sharp and cold.
The warmth that had flickered in his eyes moments ago...if it had been there at all...was completely gone, only to be replaced by something harder.
Something that made the air in the room feel thinner.
"Luca Moretti," Dante said, not waiting for Marco to finish his sentence. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "It seems like you are the last person to know."
Marco stopped mid-step, his expression shifting from grim determination to confusion then defensiveness. "What?"
"Luca Moretti," Dante repeated, setting his cup down with deliberate precision. "He set the fire and killed ten of our men. You're here to tell me something I already know."
Marco's jaw tightened. "How—" He stopped himself, his gaze flicking to Mila, then back to Dante. "When did you find out?"
"Last night."
"Last night?" Marco's voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding through. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
