“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
Niko looked at me.
The gray in his eyes softened slightly.
“So am I.”
His home appeared beyond a line of olive trees.
It was smaller than Palazzo Santoro, though still larger than any house one man required. Built from pale stone, it stood on a ridge overlooking distant lights. No grand fountain, no marble staircase, no crowd waited outside.
Only a woman in a black dress stood beneath the entrance lamp.
“This is Teresa,” Niko said as we stepped from the car. “She manages the house.”
Teresa looked to be in her sixties. She greeted me with a warm smile that reached her eyes.
“Welcome, Signora Santoro.”
The name felt unfamiliar.
“Eveina is fine.”
“Then Eveina,” she said. “You must be exhausted.”
“I am.”
“I prepared tea in the small sitting room.”
Niko removed his jacket and handed it to her.
“Has anything changed?”
“No. The gates are secured. Marco checked the lower road twice.”
