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... window where Angelo’s photographer stood across the street, staring at the spot where someone watched us, documented our sanctuary, and turned our safe place into a target.

Tony moves behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat through my blouse. His reflection in the glass shows controlled fury - jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath the dress shirt that stretches across his muscular frame.

"We need to talk." His voice is rough, restrained.

"I know." I turn to face hi ...

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