Suddenly, goosebumps spread across my arms like a nasty rash, and heat prickles my left cheek. It’s instinctive to turn, and that’s when I find myself staring into the eyes of Angelo Visconti. He’s leaning against the bar, holding a whiskey glass so loosely that it looks like he’s about to drop it. Dante is in his ear, talking animatedly while he remains still and silent. The contrast between them is like fire and ice.
