“How much longer?” I asked, looking out at the black void of the highway.

“Forty minutes,” Giovanni said.

We drove in silence through the dark, winding roads of western Massachusetts.

The trees pressed close to the asphalt, heavy with summer rain.

Eventually, we turned off the main road onto an unmarked gravel driveway.

A pair of massive iron gates blocked our path, flanked by stone pillars.

A man in a black raincoat approached the driver’s side window.

Giovanni rolled it down an inch.

The man looked inside, nodded, and stepped back.

The gates swung open with a heavy groan.

The estate was a sprawling stone house surrounded by high concrete walls.

Floodlights cut through the downpour, illuminating gravel paths and manicured lawns.

Two more armed men stood near the front entrance, their hands resting near their waistbands.

We stopped under a stone portico that shielded the car from the rain.

Giovanni got out first and opened my door, holding a large black umbrella over us.

I cradled Luca against my chest, shielding his face from the damp wind.

We hurried inside the grand foyer.