Zayne’s POV
The moment I heard Italian, I knew exactly what this was about. This was about the hit-and-run. And whatever they’d found in that car.
I stepped away from Isla before she could grab my arm again. Her eyes were already sharp with panic, mouth parted like she was about to say my name—say don’t—say please.
I didn’t let her.
I approached the officer who was speaking Italian into his radio, his posture stiff, his gaze scanning the property like he already owned it.
“Scusi,” I said calmly.
He turned, surprised for half a second before his face smoothed out. He sized me up—plain black shirt, flip-flops, bruised arm, expensive watch still on my wrist.
“Sì?” he replied.
“If you’re looking for a suspect,” I said evenly, “you should arrest me.”
The words landed exactly how I want
