The hand on the doorframe tightened, its knuckles turning white against the dark wood.

“Elena,” a raspy voice breathed from the darkness.

Dominic moved past me, his boots loud on the floorboards as he reached the cellar door.

He holstered his gun and knelt, taking the woman’s arm gently.

“We have you, Miriam,” Dominic said. “It’s over.”

Together, Dominic and Marco helped Dr. Miriam Hale up the stairs and into the dim light of the hallway.

She was shivering, her gray hair matted with blood from a shallow cut on her temple.

She wore a torn wool cardigan, and her fingers clutched an old black leather ledger to her chest.

“They came about an hour ago,” Dr. Hale whispered, letting us guide her to a wooden kitchen chair.

“Who came?” I asked, kneeling beside her and pressing a clean handkerchief to her head.

“Caterina’s men,” she said, squinting through the pain. “The ones who usually handle her private security.”

“Did they get what they wanted?” Dominic asked, his face tight.

“No,” Dr. Hale said, managing a weak, grim smile. “They thought the files were in my desk upstairs.”