The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors. The air was damp, carrying the faint stench of smoke and wine, and Adrian’s wrists ached from the ropes cutting into his skin. Two of the Marseille men dragged him forward, one gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, the other shoving him every time he slowed down.
“Move, Saint-Laurent,” one of them spat in French-accented English.
Adrian kept his eyes forward. His mind wasn’t on the pain, nor the ropes. It was on Alora. His daughter. His little girl who should have been safe in Leona’s arms, was not caught in the mess of his past. Every step he took in that dark tunnel, he swore to himself, he would bring her back.
A sharp turn led them into a vast underground hall. Adrian’s breath caught for a second.
It wasn’t just a
