“Enzo,” Moretti said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “Is there something you want to tell the council?”

Before Enzo could speak, the iron door behind me creaked open.

A heavy set of footsteps echoed on the wet stone floor.

My heart stopped as a shadow fell across the table.

The phone in my hand began to vibrate violently once again.

The shadow stretched across the damp stone table, long and distorted by the single bulb overhead.

I turned my head, my fingers still gripping the edge of the leather binder.

Matteo stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

His white shirt was torn at the shoulder, and a dark bruise was swelling along his left cheekbone.

Two of Moretti’s armed guards stood behind him, their hands resting on their holstered pistols.

Matteo’s eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on the ledger before locking onto mine.

“He is alive, as you can see,” Moretti said, his voice dry.

“For now,” Enzo spat, his face flushing a deep, angry red.