Alessandro’s eyes were like steel, sharp and unrelenting, as he shifted his gaze from Rosé to the man still seated smugly in the car. Marco.
Rosé’s breath hitched. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak, to explain, to calm the storm building in her husband’s eyes. But no words came out.
“Alessandro?” she whispered, almost afraid to be heard.
His gaze returned to her for the briefest second, cold, unreadable before he turned to his men.
"Portatela dentro."
(Take her inside.)
Two of Alessandro’s men stepped forward immediately. One gently took her arm, the other placed a hand on her back, motioning her toward the house.
“I want to explain,” Rosé started, her voice trembling.
“Don’t,” one of the men said quietly. “Not now. Please.”
She could see Alessandro’s body langua
