He kept his eyes on the polished marble floor, his boots making a hollow clicking sound.

“Where are they taking him?” I asked, panic rising in my throat.

“To the airport,” Matteo said. “His flight to Boston leaves in three hours.”

“And if I don’t stay?”

“The pilot will receive a call before the wheels leave the tarmac,” Matteo said flatly.

He released my arm and stepped back, leaving the heavy door slightly ajar.

The warm Italian breeze drifted into the foyer, carrying the scent of dry pine and exhaust fumes.

Freedom was right there, just beyond the stone courtyard.

I could run, but I would be running with my father’s ghost.

“It is your choice,” Matteo said, watching my face.

My knees felt weak.

I hated my father for what he had done, but I could not sign his death warrant.

“Where do I go?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Matteo nodded once, a gesture of cold approval.

“This way,” he said.

He walked past me, his leather shoes clicking against the stone.

I followed him back into the shadows of the villa because I had no other choice.