CHAPTER 11: Vincenzo.

By the time I reached McLean, the daylight had paled across the villa’s brutalist angles. High glass panes reflected the sweep of the Potomac beyond, and every corner bristled with cameras and armed men. It was less a home than a citadel, the only place in this city my father hadn’t touched.

Inside, the foyer opened wide with marble underfoot, and iron-framed windows that streamed sunlight across the polished floor. A long corridor cut through the heart of the house, leading to the living room and the glass sunroom that watched the river.

Victor Falcon was already there, waiting. He rose when I entered.

“Enzo,” he greeted, nodding once.

I shrugged out of my coat and passed it to the waiting staff before dismissing them with a flick of my hand.

“You came quickly,” my voice was flat as I motioned for Victor to sit.

“Well, you said it was urgent.” His brown eyes searched my face. “You don’t look sick. Which means this isn’t about your body.”

I sank into the black leather chair opposite