Chapter 8 · A Feather on the Glass

The blood hit the mahogany one drop at a time.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It crawled across the shipping label and soaked the ink black. Dante didn't move. He stood behind his desk, one palm flat on the parcel like he was pinning down something alive.

"Sit," he said.

"I'm good standing."

"Lucia." He didn't raise his voice. He never had to. "Rule two. When I say sit, you sit."

Rule one had been *don't touch the windows.* I'd lasted six hours on that one.

I sat.

He popped a switchblade with his thumb. The steel flicked open, sliced the packing tape in one clean drag, and the smell hit me before the cardboard flaps opened.

Copper. And that sickly sweet rot of fruit left out in August.

Inside sat a white dove, neck twisted at an impossible angle.

Someone had wrapped it in ivory lace. Intricate, floral, filthy with grease. I knew every thread of it. Eleven days ago, six bridesmaids had pinned that exact lace into my hair at Holy Name.

My stomach gave a hard heave. I swallowed it down.