AYLA
The door of the car clicked shut quietly behind me.
My mind was a whirlwind of so many things.
I wanted to know where they'd taken Lorenzo to.
There was the undeniable tension between Cassian Moretti and me.
The last time he'd been in my apartment.
The memory flashed over my face, and I looked away, pressing my face to the tinted window.
I didn't want Cassian to pick up from where he'd left the last time we spoke.
I wanted him to forget about Arthuro, never to say a word about it.
He rounded the car. Immediately he got in beside me; the Cadillac hummed beneath us.
We pulled out, flanked by two cars. Four black sedans with windows darker than charcoal flanked us on all sides—two behind, two in front.
"Ayla."
No response. I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them.
My back to him, but I watched his reflection from the glass window—the sharp line of his profile, the intensity in his eyes, the way his eyes searched for mine in the reflection.
