I looked up at whoever I'd bumped into apologizing again, but the words died in my throat.

The man standing in front of me was older, maybe in his sixties, with a thick build and cold eyes. His right arm was in a cast, wrapped in white bandages that extended up past his elbow. His nose had two strips of medical tape across the bridge, and there were dark bruises spreading under both eyes.

Vittorio Marconi.

The man Xander had beaten two nights ago.

My stomach dropped straight through the ...