The tram tracks in Bucharest glisten with cold light in the midnight rain.
Ferrara raises the collar of his black coat; the espresso in his coffee cup has long grown cold.
It was the fifth time he passed the Saint Stavron Cathedral when he finally noticed the tracker had made a fatal mistake—the man in the leather jacket had bought Pravda three times from the same newsstand.
He stopped at an abandoned dock by the Danube River, his right hand naturally hung at his side, ready to draw the dagger from his waist in the quickest of motions should the other make any move.
The man did not pause, he walked slowly along the cement brick road by the riverbank railing, still holding the copy of Pravda that had exposed him.
Ever since he got off the plane last night, he had realized he was being watched.
Ferrara suddenly realized that ignoring Henry's warnings to come to Eastern Europe was indeed a huge risk.
But he had no choice.
Because this time, he came for his sister Catherine.
