The call came at 3:17 a.m.
Angel was already awake—had been for hours—sprawled across the king bed in her penthouse suite, skin still humming from the memory of Dante’s mouth and the way Luca’s hands had gripped her hips on the dance floor. The phone buzzed once on the nightstand. She answered without looking.
“Pack light,” Dante’s voice rasped through the line. “We’re moving you. Now.”
She sat up slowly, sheets sliding off her bare shoulders. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that your father signed off on it personally. Okafor’s men were spotted thirty minutes from the tower. Armed. Moving in patterns. They’re not bluffing anymore.”
A thrill chased down her spine—not fear. Anticipation. “Where?”
“North. Two hours out. Remote. Secure. Wheels up in twenty.”
She ended the call, stood, and let t
