The silence that followed was suffocating.
Dante didn't move. He stood at the base of the stairs, his hands resting lightly in his coat pockets. His eyes swept over the room. They took in the damp rugs, the makeshift beds, the cardboard boxes filled with old toys, the dented hot plate, and finally, the six children huddled in the shadows, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
His gaze settled on Olivia.
For six months, he had imagined every possible betrayal. He had prepared himself to find her meeting with federal agents, passing ledger photos to the Volkov family, or running a rival operation. He had expected to feel anger, the cold, satisfying urge to eliminate a threat.