The night had brought fitful, restless sleep to the bridal suite of Palazzo delle Ombre. Every time Gia closed her eyes, she saw the stormy gray gaze of Lorenzo Bellini, felt the warmth of his large hand encasing hers at the altar, and heard the deep, velvet cadence of his voice murmuring that in this palace, lines drawn in anger had a habit of turning to ash. By six in…
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