Natasha returned to the Ferrari, slid into the driver's seat, and gripped the wheel. Instead of turning back toward the Kent estate, she steered onto another road entirely—one leading deeper into the city.
The further she drove, the narrower the road became. The clean city lanes gave way to a long stretch of winding tar bordered by tall trees—oak, cypress, wild shrubs thick enough to swallow a whole car. The wind rustled through the leaves, casting moving shadows across the lonely road. It was quiet. It was always quiet.
Natasha's stomach churned.
When Leila's house finally appeared, almost hidden behind a cluster of overgrown trees, Natasha parked right at the front. A modern bungalow with tall glass walls and a wide wraparound porch, it looked harmless—almost peaceful. The afternoon sun bounced off the windows, giving the house an almost blinding glow.
