Chapter 128

• The safehouse was nothing like our villa in Naples. It was cramped and old, hidden in the dusty back roads of southern Sicily. The walls were thick and smelled of mildew. Shutters stayed closed, even in the heat of the day, casting every room in dull shadows.
• I sat on the edge of a rickety chair in what passed for the kitchen, trying to hold it together. My clothes were stained with dust and sweat. My hair clung to my forehead. The silence pressed on me like a weight.
• Adam was in the next room with Raphael and a couple of his men, speaking in low, angry Italian. I could only catch snatches of it. Words like “bastardo” and “cacciare” and “ucciderlo.” Kill him. Hunt him.