Cole

Piers.

He rushed in, having encountered no resistance along the way. Hila was beside him, alert and tense, her black eyes glittering as they raced down the corridor, dimly echoing with the sounds of people—men shouting—and one voice, in particular, commanded his attention. His Pappa, the Mafia Don, was bellowing—the sound of a man in deep distress—and with a sudden spurt in his speed, Hila and he stumbled upon the scene.

He would never forget the scene that met his eyes: his mother was lying in his father’s arms as the Don held his beloved wife. Her blood was staining his shirt; there was a rapidly spreading, sticky, deep stain around her body.

Hila pushed the men standing around, forcibly thrusting away Claude, who was gabbling madly in his grief, sobbing like a baby. Ria was on her knees, weeping.

“The f*ck away from her, let me see,’ yelled the former assassin. Lucien Delano was still holding his wife, and his lips drew back in a feral snarl.

“Don’t touch her…’ he roared.

‘Where’s