The pristine white light of the vault felt like a surgical strike against my vision. Marcello stood in the threshold, the gold-plated revolver in his hand looking like a gaudy toy against the grim, tactical black of the twelve men flanking him. He wasn't the broken old man Roman had sent back to Chicago; he was a king who had never actually left his throne.
Beside me, Roman didn't flinch. He didn't reach for his weapon. He stood with a terrifying, absolute stillness, his eyes fixed on the man who had been his mentor, his father figure, and his silent executioner for twenty years. The air in the volcanic rock chamber grew heavy, the scent of salt and ancient damp replaced by the sharp, chemical smell of gun oil and betrayal.
"The Mediterranean is lovely this time of year, isn't it, Roman?
