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Voices shout right outside.

"Down! Get down! Mani in alto! Mani in alto subito!"

A woman screams somewhere down the hall.

A man shouts and cuts off mid-word.

Something heavy hits the floor. Then another. Then another.

The knot won't give. The rope is old and wet with something I don't want to name, and my fingers keep slipping.

"Amanda. Look at me."

I look up.

"Leave it."

"No."

"Leave it. Stand up. Get against the wall. They're coming through this door."

"Francesca—"

"Stand up."

So I do.

I press my back against the wall beside the door, hands flat, breath stuck in my chest.

The handle rattles.

Stops.

Then the door blows inward.

Wood splinters. A boot comes through the gap, then the whole thing folds, and men pour into the room. Four. Five. I can't count them fast enough. Black vests. Helmets. Guns up. White lights cutting across my face, the chair, Francesca, the floor.

"POLIZIA! POLIZIA! On the ground! Get on the ground!"

English.

I don't move.

I can't.

Francesca shouts something in Italian from the chair. One of the men swings his rifle toward her, then lowers it when he sees the ropes.

"Ma'am! On the ground! Hands where I can see them!"

He means me.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

I go down. Knees first, then hands. The stone is cold under my palms.

"Valentino." My mouth is close to the floor. I can't see anything but boots. "Valentino Conti is in this building. Please. You have to find him."

No one answers.