“Your mother,” he said, his breath hitching. “The clinic in Geneva. It wasn’t just cancer.”

He choked, a thin line of dark blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.

“Roman, stop talking,” I said, pressing a clean linen towel from the bar cart against his side.

He groaned, his eyes closing fully as his head fell back against the leather.

“Mara, we need the medical kit,” I said, not looking back. “The one in the hall closet.”

“I’ll get it,” she said, her voice tight.

She unlocked the study door, slipped out into the darkened hallway, and locked it behind her.

I was left alone in the dim, green-lit room with my husband.

The man who had forced me into this marriage, but who had just taken a bullet for me.

I looked down at my hands, covered in his blood, and felt a strange, cold resolve settle over me.

My father had lied about the debts, and he had lied about my mother’s death.

I reached into Roman’s coat pocket and pulled out his heavy brass key ring.