He reached out and took my arm, his grip tight but trembling.

“Elena, please.”

“We can still use the cellar.”

“No,” I said, pulling away from his touch.

“Go downstairs, Luca.”

“Open the door for your brother.”

Sophia put the silver revolver into her pocket.

She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

“You are either very brave, Elena,” she said, “or you have lost your mind.”

“Perhaps both,” I said.

I walked to the door of the office and opened it fully.

The cold air from the hallway rushed in, carrying the scent of damp wool and expensive cologne.

Down below, Marcus began to climb the stairs, his leather soles striking each wooden step with a slow, steady rhythm.

The hum of the laptop fan seemed to grow louder in the silence.

Luca looked down at the floor, his face pale under the yellow light of the desk lamp.

“He will know I helped you,” Luca said.

“He already knows,” I replied.

“Marcus does not believe in accidents.”

“If you walk out that door now, he might let you live.”