Cellie's POV
Demetrio had come to my apartment the night before with the expression of a man carrying something heavy and the body language of a man who had decided not to put it down yet.
He had sat in my kitchen for forty minutes and told me that the Russian intelligence was developing, that Grigori had found the historical roots of the conflict, that it went back further than either of us had understood, and that he needed more time before he could give me the full picture. He had been careful and specific and I had watched his face through all of it and known, with the particular instinct I had developed over weeks of reading him, that there was a layer underneath what he was saying that he was not saying yet.
