His back was to me, the line of his shoulders rigid against the morning light. "Obsidian" hung in the air between us, a word heavier than any bullet.
I looked down at my hand. My fingers were curled around the slim device in my pocket, the metal warm from my body heat. For three years, this phone had been my lifeline, my connection to a world that made sense, a world of orders and objectives and clear moral lines. Now, it was just a piece of incriminating evidence.
I didn't have the energy for the chess match anymore. The nightmare had drained me, and Salvatore's quiet dismantling of my cover had finished the job. I was tired of pretending to be the hapless girlfriend, tired of the Milanese lilt, tired of the fear that lived like a cold stone in my gut.
Slowly, I pulled the phone from my pocket.
Salvatore did not turn around immediately.
