“Elias,” Roman said, his voice flat and dangerous. “He brought company.”

On the screen, two more men stepped out of the black sedan, carrying short-barreled rifles.

“They’re bypassing the main drive,” Roman said, turning toward the door. “They know the blind spots.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, grabbing his sleeve.

“To finish this,” he said.

“You’re already bleeding, Roman.”

The dark stain on his shoulder had spread, soaking through his gray shirt.

“It’s just a graze,” he said, pulling away gently. “Stay here. Lock the inner door.”

I didn’t stay.

I followed him out into the cold, drafty corridor that led to the eastern wing.

The estate felt massive and hollow, our footsteps echoing against the high stone walls.

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the tall leaded-glass windows of the gallery.

A sudden, sharp shatter exploded from the end of the hall.

Glass rained down onto the parquet floor, followed by the heavy thud of a boot.

“Down!” Roman yelled, throwing his weight against me.

He shoved me behind a thick marble pedestal supporting a bronze bust.