“I have a gun!”

He was lying, of course.

The only gun was the one still gripped tightly in my hand, trapped between our bodies.

But Vincent didn’t stop.

He took another step forward, his face remaining hidden in the dark, though the faint light caught the polished silver head of his walking cane.

“You do not have a gun, Paul,” Vincent said quietly.

“And you are standing in my way.”

The sound of Vincent’s cane clicking against the wet stone floor was slow and steady.

With every step he took, the temperature in the tunnel seemed to drop.

Paul squeezed my throat with his free hand, his fingers digging into my windpipe.

I gasped for air, my vision starting to blur at the edges.

“I’ll kill her!” Paul screamed, his voice echoing off the walls.

“I swear to God, Moretti, I’ll snap her neck!”

Vincent stopped.

He was standing just ten feet away now, a dark monolith in the damp gloom.

He slowly raised his hand, and I heard the faint click of a lighter.