The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of wet stone and the ozone of a coming storm. Marcello stood at the mouth of the tunnel, the suppressed rifle held with the casual precision of a man who had ended a thousand stories just like this one. Behind him, the shadows of his men flickered against the damp walls, their silhouettes casting long, jagged fingers toward the "Observatory."
Roman didn't move. He stood between me and the barrel of the gun, his back a broad expanse of black cashmere that felt like the only solid thing left in a world made of glass and blood. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a silent, vibrating fury that was more terrifying than the weapon pointed at his heart.
"You were always too sentimental, Roman," Marcello said, his voice echoing off the emerald
