I was dreaming of tiramisu. Again.
Soft, creamy, sinful tiramisu layered like a hug for my soul—until it cackled.
Yes. Cackled.
My eyes snapped open.
Someone was laughing. Like, genuinely laughing.
In Salvatore Mancini's house.
I lay frozen in bed, blinking up at the ornate ceiling with one thought screaming in my brain:
Who the hell is laughing in the Devil's lair without getting shot?
Sure, Bianca laughed. But Bianca never laughed like this. This laughter was carefree, loud, and happy—like someone had just stolen the moon and no one could stop them.
Naturally, I got up. Not because I was curious, of course. No. I'm a rational man. Logical. Responsible.
...Okay, fine. I'm nosy.
I threw on a hoodie and padded barefoot down the grand staircase, peeking over the railing like a squirrel assessing a death trap.
What I saw downstairs froze me mid-step.
