Alberto’s Rolls Royce is on fire. Angry flames escape from the windows and windshield, licking the doors and roof. And just a few feet away, a dark figure looms. Angelo. He’s looking up at me, expressionless. I swallow the thick lump in my throat, not daring to breathe. Angelo Visconti isn’t a knight in shining armor, he’s a monster in an Armani suit.
