“You do,” he agreed quietly.

“But a piece of paper is only valuable if you live long enough to show it to a judge.”

The cellar fell dead silent, save for the hum of the old boiler somewhere in the distance.

Water dripped from a rusty pipe overhead, hitting the concrete with a slow, rhythmic tap.

My fingers tightened on the edge of the wooden crate.

I looked at Denise, whose face was pale under the dim light.

We were trapped in the sub-basement of the restaurant, with no easy exit.

Nico raised the gun slightly, pointing it toward the floor between us.

“I don’t want to mess up this floor,” Nico said, his voice dropping to a conversational tone.

“It’s hard to clean concrete.”

“And frankly, I have bigger things to worry about than a thirty-year-old property dispute.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black device.

It was a signal jammer, its blue light blinking steadily.

“Your cell phones won’t work down here,” he noted.

“No one knows you are here except me.”

“That’s not true,” Denise said, her voice trembling slightly.