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Samantha looked up and saw Anthony Bellaforte running toward them.
Until that day, she had seen him only in glimpses. A dark suit crossing a hallway. A low voice issuing instructions to men who listened the way soldiers listened to an order under fire. He was younger than the legends built around wealthy men should have allowed, somewhere in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, severe, his self-control worn so tightly it gave him the appearance of someone carved rather than born.
But there was no control on his face now.
Only naked terror.
He dropped to his knees beside Luca so hard the impact must have hurt. “Luca. Look at me. Can you hear me?”
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