I pulled back the heavy brass deadbolt.

The door swung open, and a gust of cold, wet wind swept into the warm hallway, carrying the smell of rain and car exhaust.

Luca stood on the threshold, a small, sharp smile playing on his lips.

His dark hair was slicked back, wet from the storm, and his grey wool coat clung to his broad shoulders.

Behind him, three men stood on the porch, their hands buried deep in their coat pockets, their eyes scanning the dark driveway.

“Nina,” Luca said, his voice smooth and deceptively warm. “Always a comforting sight in this gloomy place.”

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, shaking his umbrella onto the polished marble floor.

“Where is my cousin?” he asked, his dark eyes instantly darting toward the grand staircase.

“Mr. Romano is resting, sir,” I said, keeping my voice low and keeping my eyes cast downward.

“Resting,” Luca repeated, a low, humorless chuckle escaping him. “At nine o’clock on a Friday night, with the docks in chaos?”

He handed me his wet umbrella, his fingers brushing against mine. His skin was ice-cold.