The heavy wooden door slowly swung inward.

A gust of freezing air rushed into the cabin, carrying a flurry of fine, dry snow.

The wind howled through the open doorway, smelling of pine needles and damp earth.

Marcus stood on the threshold.

His long black wool coat was dusted with white on the shoulders.

His dark hair was damp from the snow, clinging to his forehead.

He looked older than he had when I left Chicago.

The sharp lines of his jaw were shadowed with stubble, and his eyes looked hollow.

Luca did not lower the pistol.

He held it with both hands, his arms locked straight in front of him.

“Don’t take another step, Marcus,” Luca said.

Marcus did not look at his brother.

His eyes were locked on me, studying my face, then drifting down to my hands resting on my stomach.

He didn’t move toward us.

He simply reached back with one hand and closed the heavy door behind him, shutting out the storm.

The sudden silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the low hum of the basement generator.