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 months, this phone had been my lifeline, 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.
Slowly, I pulled the phone from my pocket.
Salvatore did not turn around immediately.
He stood at the window of his room with one hand braced against the glass, the city stretching beneath him in cold silver and pale dawn light. The room smelled faintly of coffee and gun oil.
When he finally looked over his shoulder at me, his face was unreadable.
I crossed the room.
