Dante sat in the safehouse's living area, the low hum of tension vibrating in the air. He hadn't moved since Annabelle had drifted to sleep on his shoulder.

Her even breathing had soothed him briefly, but as the hours ticked by, the weight of everything pressing down on them settled heavier in his chest. His hand rested on the hilt of his gun, a reflex as much as a necessity.

When Annabelle stirred, her lashes fluttering open, he felt her body tense before she even turned her head to meet his gaze. The softness in her features from sleep evaporated, replaced by guarded suspicion.

“How long have I been out?”...