The plane could not land fast enough.

Eight hours from Albania to the Azores felt like eight years. Dante spent every minute staring at his phone, calling Sienna again and again.

Straight to voicemail.

Every time.

His chest tightened each time the call failed. His mind filled in the silence with images he could not stop.

Blood on the farmhouse floor.

Leo crying.

Elena screaming.

By the time the plane touched the runway, Dante was already on his feet.

The wheels had barely stopped moving before he pushed past the others and ran down the steps.

A black car waited on the tarmac.

He climbed in without a word.

“Farmhouse,”...