Chapter 90 The End Of The Consigliere

• She left the light of the room like someone walking away from a warming fire. The corridor that led to the dungeon smelled of damp stone and old oil lamps. Each footstep sounded loud to her, a metronome for the resolve that had built in her chest. Stefano had told her everything. He had told her who Marco had been, what he had done, and what was left to do. Now it was her turn to finish it.
• The iron door to the lower corridor was heavy. It sighed as she pushed it, a long, tired sound that matched the way her bones felt. Torches lined the passage, their flames guttering as a chill moved through the tunnel. Her palms were cool on the cold metal of the railing. Her breath came short, precise, as if every inhale had to be rationed for what she was about to do.
• At the bottom of the stairs the dungeon opened into familiar gloom. The cell where Marco had been kept smelled of oil, sweat, and the tang of old blood. Chains hung from the walls like the teeth of some awful mouth. He was there, slumped against the far wall, shoulders bound, the rope bitten into his skin. He looked older than she remembered, thinner, with a face that belonged to a man who had spent more nights awake than asleep. When he saw her his eyes narrowed, recognition and a crooked kind of longing flaring up for the briefest instant.