The morning after Morrison's call about Richard Volkov, I woke at 3 AM.
Not unusual for me I'd been a poor sleeper since prison. But this was different. Not insomnia born of habit. Something else. A feeling I hadn't had in years.
The feeling of being watched.
I lay still in the darkness, listening. Dante breathing beside me. The house settling. Normal night sounds.
Nothing obviously wrong.
But the feeling persisted.
I got up quietly. Walked through the house, checking windows, checking doors. Everything locked. Security system armed and green.
In the kitchen, I made tea and sat at the table where we'd had a thousand family conversations.
Gianluca's letter had arrived three months ago.
In those three months, we'd uncovered a fifty-year conspiracy. Exposed it publicly. Watched dominoes fall across four countries.
And now a man was dead in a prison cell.
