We released his restraints but kept security close.
Dante Castellano an unfortunate echo of my husband's name that nobody commented on, given everything else happening sat at our kitchen table, accepting coffee with hands that trembled slightly despite his earlier composure.
"My grandmother knew things she never told the authorities," he began. "Things she only shared with me in her final months, when she was certain she was dying and wanted someone to carry the knowledge forward."
"Why you specifically?" Connor asked, still wary despite our temporary truce.
"Because I'm the only Castellano left who wasn't part of the old vendetta culture. My father died young car accident, nothing suspicious, just bad luck. I was raised mostly by my mother, away from the family business entirely. My grandmother saw in me someone who could carry forward what she'd started without the baggage of generational hatred."
"What exactly did she know?"
