Luca’s boots thudded against the basement stairs as he returned.

He stepped back into the room, wiping black grease from his hands with a tattered red rag.

He stopped when he saw the phone in my hand, his eyes locking onto the blue glow.

“Who is it?” Luca asked.

“Sophia,” I said, my voice barely a whisper in the cold. “She says Marcus is moving.”

Luca took the rag and threw it onto the dusty wooden table.

He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, his knees nearly touching mine in the cramped, dim space.

“He is going to find us, Luca,” I said, wrapping my arms tightly around my pregnant stomach. “He always does.”

Luca looked down at his boots, then up at the single yellow bulb swinging slightly from the ceiling.

“He isn’t looking for you to hurt you, Elena,” Luca said.

“He kept me locked in that house like a prisoner for six months,” I said. “He barely spoke to me. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

My voice shook, the memory of those quiet, frozen dinners at the estate cutting through the chill of the cabin.