The soft hush of the penthouse was shattered by the sound of the storm outside. Rain battered the glass windows like a warning. Elena stood by the fireplace, wrapped in nothing but one of Lorenzo’s shirts, her bare legs trembling—more from the war inside her than the cold air.

Lorenzo sat on the leather couch, his dark eyes trained on her like a predator watching his prey. A half-empty glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers, and the bruising on his knuckles hadn’t faded since the last interrogation. She should have been afraid. Instead, she felt tethered to him in a way she couldn’t explain.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said,...