He did not look like a savior anymore.

He looked like a man who had been caught.

“Is it true?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet corridor.

Marcus let go of my arm, stepping back with a cold, mocking smile on his face.

Damiano stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on mine as the silence between us stretched.

The phone in Damiano’s pocket began to buzz, its vibration loud against the marble wall.

The vibration stopped.

Damiano pulled the phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, and pressed a button on the side.

He slid it back into his coat.

The silence in the corridor returned, heavier than before.

Marcus laughed, a short, sharp sound that rattled against the marble.

“He won’t answer,” Marcus said, crossing his arms. “He knows who is calling.”

I looked at Damiano.

His gray eyes were fixed on the floor between us, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched.

“Is it true?” I asked again.

My voice sounded small, lost in the high-ceilinged gallery.

Damiano finally looked up at me.