The transition from the chilling, high-tech depths of the mansion back into the primary corridors of the house felt like a slow-motion car crash in Anastasia's mind.
She walked with her shoulders pulled back, a brittle tension in her spine, but her thoughts were all over the place. Every time her heart beat, she felt the rhythmic clack of those pistols the boys were holding echoing in her chest.
He isn't just a killer, she thought, a cold, oily nausea settling in her gut. He is an architect of ruins. He's harvesting innocence to pave his own roads.
As they rounded the corner into the grand hallway, the air stopped trying to soothe her. The floral scent of the upstairs vanished, replaced by the suffocating, expensive musk of Matteo's presence.
He was standing by the heavy oak banister of the staircase, his hands in his pockets, perfectly still.
