She glances at my Rolex. “If you’re looking for Devil’s Cove, you got off the interstate two junctions too early.” “Wren,” the beanie-wearing man hisses, “that’s Alonso Visconti’s son.” I don’t tear my gaze away from the fire. I don’t need to, because I can hear the cogs whirring in her brain. She mutters a curse word, followed by a mumbled apology, then scurries back to the safety of the bar.
