The air in the surgical suite was a volatile mix of antiseptic and iron. Marcella stood frozen, the phantom grip of her dying husband on her shoulder a more effective shackle than any chain. Alessandro’s fingers dug into the silk of her dress, leaving dark, wet prints. He looked less like a man and more like a force of nature that had refused to stop out of sheer, bloody-minded spite.

"How?" Marcella whispered, her voice cracking. "My men... I saw them go into the stairwell."

"They’re ...