Rain fell in cold, silver threads as the federal van backed toward the tarmac.
Two black SUVs flanked it like silent guards.
Emerie stood alone behind the perimeter tape, arms wrapped around herself, soaked to the bone. Her fingers were still red from the blood that wouldn't wash out. Not yet.
Across the rain-slick concrete, paramedics loaded Antony into the armored van.
Shoulder bandaged. Pale. Silent.
But alive.
He hadn't opened his eyes in hours.
He hadn't spoken since the moment he'd collapsed into her arms.
“Free yourself," he had said.
As if he were letting her go.
As if he meant to.
---
**One hour earlier.**
The villa had burned slow.
Fire teams smothered the east wing before it reached the archival vaults.
Silas Macadam had disappeared—through a tunnel no one had map
