Nick
The silent trek up the grand wooden staircase felt like walking through a private museum.
Every step I took left a faint red smudge on the thick runner rug, but the old butler walking half a pace ahead of me didn't say a word.
He didn't rush. He didn't turn back to look at the mess I was making on the pristine floors.
His posture was completely straight, his white-gloved hands folded neatly behind his back, as if guiding a man soaked in fresh human blood through a multimillion-dollar estate was just another standard Thursday evening.
I stared at the back of his grey hair, my mind still buzzing from the raw adrenaline of the last hour.
A man had been shot right in front of me.
Less than three feet away. I had felt the heat of the blood pouring out over my bare hands, had felt the terrible, ragged hitch in Rico's chest under my palms while bullets tore through the doorframe.
