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... a deep frown, etching a sharp crease across his forehead. He wasn’t the sentimental type—years in the underworld had carved his heart into stone, untouched by the fleeting intimacy he’d shared with her. Her death didn’t spark grief or regret, only a flicker of surprise. ’Kingpin actually did it,’ he thought, leaning back on the creaky couch in the dim warehouse, the faint scent of old furniture mingling with the lingering tang of his own blood.
In public, Kingpin had been Vanessa’s doti ...
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