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... e tall windows of the east wing, a sound that might have been comforting if Aria’s nerves weren’t already strung as tight as a bowstring. She had been in the Don’s mansion for almost a week now, and the place still felt like an ornate cage—one gilded with Italian marble floors, hand-carved furniture, and silk drapes, but a cage all the same.

Every day had been the same: an assigned breakfast at a fixed hour, guarded strolls in the garden where security men watched her every move, and the ...

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