He stood in the doorway, supporting his weight against the dark wood of the frame.

It was Alexander.

His face was the color of winter ash, and dark circles shadowed his hollow eyes.

He wore a heavy black wool coat draped over his shoulders to hide his bandages.

Underneath the coat, I could see the collar of his white shirt, damp with sweat.

Dr. Elaine Voss stood just behind him, her face tense, holding her black leather medical bag.

Alexander did not look like a man who had been near death an hour ago.

His posture was rigid, held together by sheer, terrifying willpower.

“Put the gun down, Santo,” Alexander said.

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, but it carried across the quiet room like a physical blow.

Santo’s arm trembled.

The silencer on his pistol wavered, pointing away from Marcus’s forehead and toward the floorboards.

“Alexander,” Luca whispered, his voice cracking as he took a step back.

Luca’s face went entirely white, the charismatic grin vanishing from his lips.

“You look as though you have seen a ghost, cousin,” Alexander said.