Roman stepped out of the small cabin just as the morning sun began to warm the forest floor. The air smelled of damp earth and pine in a way that reminded him he was far from home. He stretched slowly, rolling his shoulders.

Across the clearing, Angelo sat on a wooden stump, dismantling his gun and cleaning it. His movements were calm, too calm for someone who’d survived betrayal and exile. He didn’t look up.

“I see someone is finally awake,” Angelo said dryly, wiping the barrel with ...