Lorenzo. He looks nothing like the boy Danika remembers. He has filled out, the sharp angles of his face hardened by time and discipline. His suit is tailored to perfection, hugging thick thighs and a chest that strains against the crisp white fabric. A dusting of grey peppers his temples, giving him a look of mature authority that makes Danika’s knees threaten to buckle. His eyes, dark and piercing, sweep the room before locking onto hers. The shock hits him like a physical blow. His jaw goes slack, the confident smirk he wore evaporating instantly. His hand, halfway to adjusting his cuff, drops to his side. Danika’s grip on the folders tightens until her knuckles turn white, the plastic edges digging painfully into her palms. She cannot breathe. The scent of him—sandalwood and expensive tobacco, mixed with the faint, ghostly smell of rain—invades her senses, dragging up memories she has buried for years. "Danika?" Lorenzo breathes, his voice a rough rumble that scrapes again
Read more