The front door swung open with a slow, agonizing groan of ungreased hinges.

“Miller?” a voice called out from the darkness of the foyer.

It was not Miller’s voice.

It was too thin, too nasal, carrying the distinct accent of the Brooklyn docks.

“In here,” Miller’s voice replied from just inside the threshold.

My chest tightened until I could barely draw breath.

Miller, the man who had guarded the gate for three days, had just unlocked the door for them.

Vincent did not move a muscle, his hand still clamped firmly on my arm.

He slowly slid his other hand inside his jacket, drawing his Walther PPK with a practiced, silent motion.

The shadow of two men stretched across the polished hardwood floor of the hallway.

“Where is the girl?” the nasal voice asked.

“Upstairs or in the study,” Miller said. “Moretti is with her. He only brought two men with him today.”

“Corrado wants them both,” the other man said. “No noise. Use the dampeners.”

Vincent leaned closer to me, his lips almost touching my temple.