THOMAS COLE'S POV
The South Grotto was a tomb of cold air and shadows, but the man standing at the end of the mezzanine was the only thing in the world that felt like a pulse.
Enzo Bartoli was out of place in the boat bay. He was dressed in a navy wool coat that cost more than my first three cars combined, his dark hair perfectly groomed, even though a missile had shaken the island two hours ago. He was leaning against the tactical console, a silver flask in one hand and a tablet in the other, looking less like a lawyer and more like a prince surveying a crumbling kingdom.
My side flared with a sharp, biting heat as I approached him. I tried to mask the limp, but Enzo didn't need to see me move to know I was hurting. He had a sixth sense for my bullshit.
