The elevator descent felt like a drop into the bowels of hell. Luciano didn't say a word, but his hand was a heavy, warm weight on the small of my back. The silence between us was no longer tense with suspicion—it was charged with a shared, lethal purpose.
When the doors opened to the basement level, the air turned cold and damp. The luxury of the penthouse was gone, replaced by gray concrete and the hum of industrial fans. Two guards stood at attention by the heavy steel door at the end of the hall. They looked at me, then at the marks Luciano had left on my neck, and quickly lowered their gaze.
"Open it," Luciano commanded.
The locks clicked, a heavy, mechanical sound that echoed like a guillotine. Luciano stepped in first, and I followed, the letter still clutched in my hand.
My fat
