The rain hammered against the bulletproof windows of the Moretti penthouse. Luca Moretti stood at the edge of the glass, whiskey glass in one hand, the city lights of Chicago bleeding gold and red below him. Five years since Sylvie had been gunned down and the hole in his chest still felt fresh. Sylvie with her wild laugh and the way she looked at him like he was more than a monster. Not like you.