“Why’d you change your mind?” I ask.

He straightens up on the cane and hops back. I’m sure he’s going to tell me to mind my business, but instead, he takes a sharp breath and answers.

“Agosti’s willing to do shit I’m not. I need to make a move.”

I nod. Poor Massimo. He’s counting on me to give him the weapon he needs to win a war, and I never will. Not this weapon. Ever.

I pass into the hallway alone. My footsteps echo, even when I try to walk softly. The bulbs in the hall have been dimmed to the glow of a single firefly and Dario’s cage is completely dark. The benefit of this arrangement isn’t entirely clear until he’s in front of me, so close to the glass his mouth and nose are veiled by the condensation of his breath on it.

I stop.

The darkness nestles us into the intimacy of a candlelit dinner.

He looks worse. Unshaven. Sunken. Greasy hair with a bloodied patch missing. Chapped lips. The missing tops of his ears seem more like the result of trauma than battle scars that made him stronger. But his fists clench so tightly the wedding scars are incandescent white. His eyes are clear and strong. They say this beaten shell is temporary. It will be left behind after his enemies are torn to shreds.

I don’t know how anyone has the courage to hurt him.

“Come closer.”

I step to him until my forehead feels his breath through the inch-wide slit between the upper and lower panes. I’m close enough to see his pocket. The edge is uneven. The hem’s been picked open. He felt the paper clip. He got it out. Did he see the message and understand it? Or did he just slide the clip out and leave the hem intact? I can’t tell. But he has to have the razor. He couldn’t have eaten it, and Denise never reported contraband in the dirty bowl.

I don’t know what to say to him. Even if I had every word in the dictionary at my disposal, I couldn’t express my sorrow at seeing him like this together with the euphoria at seeing him at all.

“Dario.” That’s the only word my mouth will make. The only one that squeaks through the space between joy and despair.

“They think this glass can keep me away from you. What do you think? Do you think I can’t tear this thing down?”

His fingertips are white from gripping the edge of the bottom pane. Is a man strong enough to dismantle this cell? Is a starving, enraged beast?

“If you could, it would be gone already and you’d be carrying me down this hall. We’d be shot at the end of it. Or at least you would be. They’ll keep me alive if they can.”

The consequences of that stick in my throat. A life without him would be death. The organs between my legs would never bring pleasure again.