Marshall’s POV

The morning they came for Francesco, the sky outside the narrow window looked pale and washed out, as if even the sun didn’t want to be there.

I was still half asleep when I heard the sound of boots in the hallway. Heavy steps. Voices. The clang of keys. Then our cell door creaked open.

“Tailor,” one of the guards called out. “Pack your things.”

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Those words didn’t sound real. Francesco didn’t move right away either. He just sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor like he hadn’t heard them.

“Tailor,” the guard said again, louder this...