MIA POV My legs feel like water as I walk down the hallway to Angelo’s study. He knows. He has to know. Why else would he call me thirty seconds after I texted Austin? Why else would his voice through the intercom sound like a judge reading a death sentence? I should run. Grab my bag, leave the penthouse, disappear. But Mom needs the money. The treatment starts Friday. If I run now, she dies. So I keep walking. The study door is open. Angelo sits behind a massive desk made of dark wood, laptop open, glass of amber liquid in his hand. He doesn’t look up when I enter. “Close the door,” he says. I do. The click sounds final. “Sit.” There’s a leather chair across from his desk. I sink into it, hands clasped tight in my lap to hide the shaking. Angelo finally looks at me. Those gray eyes pin me in place like a butterfly to a board. “Are you afraid of me, Mia?” Yes. Terrified. “No,” I lied. His smile is slow and terrifying. “You should be.” My throat closes. This is it. He’
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