A maid brought me a cup of black tea, but my hands shook too much to drink it.

The steam rose in thin spirals, disappearing into the high ceiling.

An hour later, Damiano walked over and stood in front of me.

The tension in his shoulders had not dissipated, but his face was a mask of cold resolve.

“There is an art exhibition tomorrow night at the glass pavilion,” he said.

“The city’s elite will be there to celebrate the museum’s new wing.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, looking up at him.

“Because Marcus will be there to beg his remaining political donors for help,” Damiano said.

“We must be there to ensure they turn their backs on him.”

“It is too dangerous,” I said, my heart sinking. “He has a gun, Damiano.”

“You will be safe,” he said, touching my cheek with a surprisingly warm hand.

“My men will cover every exit, and the police will be watching the perimeter.”

“We are going to end this tomorrow,” he added, his voice soft but absolute.

The next evening arrived too quickly.