Clara’s body went cold.
“Don’t say anything about my brother.”
“Then come speak with Mr. Salvatore.”
It was not a request now.
It had never been.
Clara untied her apron with numb fingers. Marla whispered her name, but Clara did not look at her. She could not bear pity. Not tonight.
She grabbed her coat and followed the men into the rain.
The city blurred through the tinted windows.
Clara sat in the back seat between the scarred man and the younger one. Neither touched her. That almost made it worse. Violence would have been easier to understand than this polished restraint.
“What’s your name?” she asked the scarred man.
He looked at her. “Matteo.”
“And his?”
“Nico.”
Nico did not look at her.
“Does Mr. Salvatore always send funeral directors to invite women to dinner?”
Matteo smiled faintly. “Only the special ones.”
“I’m not special.”
“You are AB negative.”
“That’s not a personality.”
“No,” Matteo said. “But it is rare.”
Clara turned toward the window.
Raven Hill rose above the rest of the city like it had been built to look down on everyone. Iron gates. Stone walls. Mansions set back behind old trees. The car stopped before a property so large it seemed less like a house than a threat carved out of marble and glass.
The gates opened before anyone spoke.
Inside, the driveway curved through black cypress trees toward a mansion lit from within by warm gold. Men stood beneath the portico. More men stood near the hedges. Still more watched from balconies and shadows.
Clara counted exits automatically.
There were too many guards and not enough hope.
The front doors opened.
Matteo led her inside.
